The United States of Nothing
by Calamitatum
Summary: "After all this time, all these years, you're the one who finally put it all together. You surprised me, bro. There were a couple people I was worried about for a while, but not you. Not sweet, innocent little Canada." The Confederate States of America smiled, teeth gleaming, eyes predatory. "And it only took you one-hundred fifty-one years."
1. Nothing

**AN: Well, I'm not entirely sure _why _exactly I decided to write this. The idea kind of spawned from a conversation I had with my sister about the American Civil War (because we're the really _cool_ types of teenagers who like talk about things like that) but I hadn't really planned to make anything of it. And then this happened.**

**Blegh.**

**Warnings: Dark themes. Oodles and oodles of swearing. Violence, gore, descriptive torture, and in later chapters, character death. Possible offensive or inaccurate portrayal of real historical events.**

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><p>Sometimes he wondered how the hell nobody had figured it out already.<p>

It didn't take a genius to see that if it could happen to Italy, if it could happen to Korea, or Sudan, or any of the other dozens of countries it had happened to over the years... then it could probably happen to anyone. Anyone with a significant enough difference between two separate parts of their country. Anyone with the right political factors, the right geographical positioning, the right differences in culture. Anyone, anyone, anyone.

Hell, even _they_ had figured it was probably going to happen to _them_ long before it finally did. The day it all started, really; the day the war started. Granted, that was still back when there was a _them_. Back when _they_ were one. Together. Whole.

United.

The _United_ States of America.

Heh, the thought almost made him laugh now.

Sometimes Alexander F Jones wondered how the hell nobody had figured it out already.

Although most of the time he was just glad they hadn't.

It hadn't really hurt; at least not more than any other war would have. Of course there were the battle scars from the war itself, the wounds that came with the deaths of so many of _their_ men, the destruction of so much of _their _land. But the shifting itself -the _splitting_ of one's soul, one's body, one's _nation-_ hadn't really hurt that much at all. To the best that _they_ could even remember, Alfred F Jones had gone to sleep one night, restless with thoughts of battles, politics, and the slavery of his people, had been wracked with pains and nightmares all night long, and had awoken as two different men.

Two different personifications.

One for the United States of America and one for the Confederate States of America.

Just like Bangladesh would one day split from Pakistan. Just like Czechoslovakia would disband. Just like how Germany would soon be divided across the eastern and western blocks.

It had happened before, it would happen again.

One nation divides into more, and a new personification is needed for this new land, these new citizens, their new country. Sometimes it didn't even need to be _that _official. Sometimes it just happened.

North and South. Just like the personifications of Italy. _Really_ not that difficult to figure out.

Again though, he wasn't complaining.

If those other clueless morons hadn't figured it out already, then he would make damn sure they never would. They never would, because to them he _was_ Alfred F Jones -the _only _Alfred F Jones. He was the United States of America, the world superpower, the obnoxious brat, the hero.

Unbeknownst to them, Alfred F Jones hadn't seen the light of day in one-hundred and fifty-one years. Not since 1863. Not since Gettysburg. Not since Alexander finally _finally _took him down.

So maybe the Confederate States of America had lost the war, and maybe the South had lost to the North, and maybe the states had all rejoined, and maybe America had become whole again. So yeah, maybe Alexander had, technically, lost.

But _why the fuck_ did that mean Alexander truly had to _lose_?

Screw what the history books said. Screw what everyone said. He didn't care, because they didn't know the whole story. They didn't know him. They didn't know the United States of America.

He wasn't going to lose.

He didn't lose.

He hadn't lost.

He happily reminded himself of that every time he made the bastard scream. And beg. And cry. The imposter. The fake. The _other_ America. The one who thought the North and the South were just… just two halves of a whole.

Screw that.

There were no halves. Not anymore.

There was only him now. There was only him. There had only ever been him.

He would do whatever it took. He would turn himself into whatever he needed to -_whoever _he needed to- and he would fake whatever reality he had to. But if there could be only _one_, then Alexander would be damned if it wasn't him._  
><em>

He was, and always would be, the United States of America.

He had taken the name, the face, the nation, the history, the _life_ of Alfred F Jones.

He had become Alfred F Jones.

He _was_ Alfred F Jones.

And this disgusting, lecherous, pathetic, lying little _rodent_ that thought he could claim _his_ rightfully owned name, that thought he could bear the title of the United States of America for himself, had eventually learned that over time.

Yeah, he had fucking learned.

There had never been any point in arguing against the truth. But he had. He had been quite the stubborn little captive. At first he never shut up. Always struggling, always threatening, always demanding. After a while he stopped talking, refused to make any sound all together. That phase had broken too. For a while, in fact, he would _only_ scream; not even pleas or threats anymore. Not even _words_, really. He just screamed and cried and sobbed and thrashed and coiled and twitched and snapped and crunched and broke and bled and bled and bled and bled and _bled._

It was a shame though, because he didn't really do much of that anymore. He really was so quiet these days, nothing like how he used to be. He always had that strange look in his eyes now too. Always looked so out-of-it, like he was day-dreaming or something stupid like that. He really wasn't very much fun these days. When kicked or hit the lazy ass would just tumble to the side, that stupid look in his eyes, what was left of his tongue hanging grossly over the sides of where the teeth and flesh used to be, letting his head loll backwards and falling with a _thud_, no limbs left to steady or catch himself.

The fucker didn't even scream anymore.

He was so quiet, sometimes _Alfred_ found himself forgetting who he was.

"You're nothing," _Alfred_ liked to tell the imposter. "You're the United States of _Nothing_."

What was that he used to say so much, again? Way back when he used to be able to talk, there was something he always said… Something about two halves of a whole? What did he call them, again? North and South, wasn't it?

"You're not me."

Oh, yeah. _Alfred_ remembered now.

"You're not the United States of America."

The North and the South. The Civil War. The Confederate States.

"You are _not_ Alfred F Jones."

Not anymore.

The United States of America.

Heh, the thought almost made him laugh now.

Sometimes _Alfred F Jones_ wondered how the hell nobody had figured it out already.

Most of the time he was just glad they hadn't.


	2. Dream

**AN: ****I'll admit, the beginning of this story is probably going to be a little slow, but PLEASE trust me when I say that as soon as the shit gets going, **_**the shit gets going.**_

**Parings: pre-established GerIta, Spamano (sort of), and waaayyy later on, if you really squint, there might be some FrUK. Probably some other background pairings, but they won't be important to the story. And in fact neither will any of the aforementioned ones here, to be honest. Sorry guys, this ain't a romance.**

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><p><em>October, 1863<em>

The rain was driving down hard and fast. Billions of heavy, ice cold droplets plummeted from the black and gray skies above, soaking everything for miles. Matthew jogged through the onslaught of weather that could only come with a mid-October New York thunderstorm as he dashed up the final few steps to his brother's enormous estate.

The wooden floorboards creaked beneath him as he crossed the front deck, his hair a dripping, tangled mess and his overcoat billowing around his waist in the wind. He smoothed his hair with one hand, the other reaching out to ring the doorbell at the same time. Even through the raging sounds of the storm, Matthew could hear the chimes echoing distantly through the mansion's thick walls.

He waited patiently, shivering from the cold as the wind howled in his ears. After a long moment, with still no answer, he frowned. Alfred had known he was coming today... right?

Matthew rung the doorbell a second time; and again, there was no answer.

After waiting far longer than he thought reasonable, Matthew huffed in agitation. He reached out and grasped the door's cool brass handle, giving it a sharp turn, though the action was done more out of annoyance than anything else. He was surprised when the lock clicked and the door swung open with a long groan.

"Oh," came the quiet exclamation of surprise. _I wasn't actually expecting it to open._

Chewing on his bottom lip in uncertainty, Matthew craned his neck and peered in through the open door. The front hall was completely empty. He took a hesitant step forward, pushing the door open the rest of the way. "Al?"

There was no response.

"Alfred?" he called again.

Matthew paused, foot hovering just over the threshold, before stepping in all the way and toeing the door shut behind him. He waited uncertainly, hoping for his brother to miraculously round the corner at any moment.

"Alfred?" he tried one last time.

Nothing.

With a reluctant sigh, Matthew cautiously began making his way down the impressive front corridor. His footsteps echoed loudly through the dark house, shattering the perfect silence, and Matthew couldn't help but noticed how oppressive and unwelcoming the atmosphere felt. He paused at a wide set of double doors at the end of the corridor, opening them slowly and stepping into a wide, loft-like parlour which broke off on either side into long, dimly lit adjoining halls.

Matthew's face fell. He had absolutely no idea which way to go.

_Maybe I should just wait here… Alfred will show up any minute now, right?_

For good measure, Matthew called out a couple more times, internally cursing his incurable whisper of a voice as he did.

With a sigh of frustration Matthew swept his gaze across the parlour, hoping Alfred might emerge from one of the hallways. Looking around, his eyes were suddenly drawn to a door across the room. Its handle was crushed, hanging off the frame loosely, and the wood around the edge was chipped and splintered, almost as if someone had been slamming the door every time they walked through it. Brow furrowing in confusion, Matthew scanned the rest of the room. He was all the more troubled to find almost every door in sight was in a similar condition to the first.

_What's Al been doing in here? Going around slamming all the doors he can find or something? And with his strength too..._

Just then, a flash of movement from across the parlour caught his attention. Matthew tensed, snapping his gaze up in the direction he had seen the movement only to relax upon the realization that it was just his reflection. He mentally chided himself for being so jumpy.

Turning, he walked over to the mirror. It was broken, a couple of missing shards hda clearly fallen out, and had left crooked gaps where the reflective surface use to be. The mirror itself had long, jagged lines spilling out in a spiderweb-like design from a center point where something had obviously smashed into it. Matthew raised a hand slowly, tracing a delicate finger along the cracks.

_Did... Did Alfred do this?_

Suddenly, with a speed he hadn't known he possessed, Matthew pulled away sharply as the distant yet unmistakable sound of a heavy steel door being slammed echoed up from one of the halls. It was followed by the scuffing of quickening footsteps. The Canadian swung around, eyeing the halls and trying to judge from which one the approaching noise was coming from.

"Matthew?"

Alfred's darkened silhouette emerged from the shadowed hall to his left, pausing just under the archway.

"What are you doing here?" his brother snapped, voice laced with surprise and... panic?

_Why would Alfred be panicked?_

Almost instantly, Alfred seemed to notice the intonation in his words as well. "I- I mean, you're early," he recovered quickly.

"Yes," Matthew began hesitantly, still trying to dissect his brother's tone. "I was able to catch an earlier train, and I figured you wouldn't mind if I came down a little sooner than planned." He took a careful step forwards, now just able to make Alfred's full figure- shoulders tensed and stance guarded, with both hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Alfred appeared to suddenly realize Matthew's intentions of moving closer, and he quickly took a measured step backwards, arms tightening behind him. Though suspicious, the unexpected movement had the desired effect, causing Matthew to freeze where he was, brow furrowed in silent question.

"Why don't you go take off your coat, Mattie?" Alfred said suddenly, jutting his head in the direction Matthew had just come from.

"Uh..."

"It's wet," Alfred urged a little more forcefully.

"O- Oh, well, I suppose I can go take it off... if you're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be sure? That's what I said, isn't it?"

Matthew gave a slow nod, still eyeing his brother warily. "Alright." _Well, someone's acting awfully strange. _"Are you just going to wait here?"

"Don't worry about me. I just have to wash up. I was in the cellar taking care of a little... _problem_, and, uh, it was rather dusty, so..." Alfred trailed off, offering a weak shrug.

"Alright." Matthew repeated. Though still thoroughly unconvinced, he decided that at this point it would be best to just go along with whatever Alfred wanted. He turned and began making his way back across the room and down the front corridor once again, noting how after a moment Alfred could be heard following, albeit at a fair distance behind him.

Still walking, Matthew silently peered back over his shoulder just in time to see Alfred's back as he quickly darted into the restroom off the corridor.

Matthew wasn't stupid.

Something weird was going on here. Something _really _weird.

Alfred seemed... off.

Despite the anxious, uneasy feeling churning up inside his stomach, Matthew tried to shrug it all off –tried to convince himself it was no big deal. Alfred was just going through a lot right now. Hell, his _country _was at _war _with _itself_. He was probably just in a lot of stress or pain.

He swallowed thickly, feeling the muscles in his chest and stomach tighten with concern. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on the rack beside the door.

_Alfred will be fine. He always is._

Feeling too uncomfortable to just stand there and wait, but not wanting to run straight back into his brother too soon, Matthew settled for following the sound of running water back towards the restroom he had seen Alfred enter earlier. He stopped just outside of the partially open door.

From where he ended up, Matthew could see Alfred had his back turned towards the door, and was hunched over the washbasin, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up past his elbows, furiously scrubbing away at his hands and forearms.

After a long moment, the American pulled his hands from the stream of water and moved out of sight behind the door. Something in the sink caught his eye, and Matthew frowned as he watched it drain.

_What the...? Was that water... red?_

Matthew, still baffled by this, was too distracted to see Alfred once again step into view with a small towel in hand as cold, sharp blue eyes flickered up in the mirror, locking onto the Canadian's reflection as he stared on.

His brother turned.

Matthew practically jumped a foot in the air in his haste to avert his gaze, trying to appear as if he hadn't been watching. He didn't even know why, but he suddenly felt guilty, like he had done something he shouldn't have –seen something he shouldn't have.

"So, Mattie..." Alfred emerged from the restroom, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He narrowed his eyes as he inspected his younger brother's form. "How _have_ you been?"

"Oh, I've been well, I suppose..." Matthew trailed off, uncomfortable with the way Alfred's glare seemed to pierce straight through him.

"I heard you're finally trying to break away from that arrogant, old tea-drinking bastard, huh?"

"Well, yes, but... I wouldn't necessarily say that..." Matthew swallowed awkwardly. Yes, he had started working towards independence, but he still didn't want to talk behind England's back or anything. "I mean, we're trying our best to go about it as peacefully as possible, or what have you. Our independence, I mean."

Suddenly, Matthew realized for the first time that Alfred had actually been moving closer, body positioned and hands out as if directing him back towards the exit. Alfred continued to speak though, as if trying to keep his brother's attention on his words and not on where he was being steered.

"So, good old Abe sent you down for me, did he?"

"Well actually it was just a couple of low-ranking government officials who sent for me, but still..." Matthew took an involuntary step backwards as Alfred approached. "Th- They told me that Lincoln's been a bit worried... about you."

This got Alfred's attention. He paused, glaring at his brother down the bridge of his nose. "Oh. Is he now?"

"Well, uh..." Matthew fumbled for an appropriate response. "He probably just doesn't understand that the whole 'being at war with yourself' thing is obviously taking its toll on you, that's all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alfred spat. "Do _you _think I've been acting strange lately?"

_Yes._ "N- No, I-"

"Because _I'm fine_, Matthew."

He nodded vigorously. "G-Good- great even. I'm positive you are, Al." Matthew noted the way his brother's whole body was practically shaking with tension. He tried to think of something to say, something that he was sure Alfred would agree with; something that wouldn't make things any worse or more awkward than they already were.

"I- I heard you managed to take Atlanta, eh?"

Alfred gave him a hard look. "You mean the North?"

"Well, y-yes," Matthew answered cautiously. "I mean, that's good... isn't it?"

Alfred shook his head, his expression bitter. "Heh, I should have known you'd support them."

"Well, that's the side you support too, right?" Matthew was genuinely confused now. He had been certain his brother would be against slavery. Alfred wasn't the kind of person that would do that to others, especially not his own people –what with him being 'the hero' and all.

Alfred gritted his teeth. "I don't _support _either one, _Mattie_," he spat, words dripping with venom. "They're both part of _me_! And it doesn't matter which side wins because they're both _me_ and no matter what _I'm _the one winning, okay?"

"Absolutely," Matthew threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm s-sorry I even brought it up. I just thought that..."

"_What?_" Alfred snapped. "You thought that_ what?_"

"N-nothing, really. I just thought that, you know, y-you'd be against enslaving people. B-because you're the hero?" Matthew tried a small smile, but all he got in return was another glare.

The Canadian cleared his throat awkwardly, scrambling once again for something else to say to relieve the tension. "Or, you know, perhaps you're right. Perhaps it doesn't matter who wins, only that this whole thing finally seems to be drawing to a close..." His words were pathetic, but Matthew pressed on. "Because that means that no more innocent lives have to be lost fighting it...?"

"You're wrong."

Matthew faltered, hands dropping back down to his sides. "S-Sorry?"

"I said you're wrong," Alfred stated simply. "I don't care about who wins and I don't care about who dies trying. It doesn't matter."

"B-But Al, they're _your _people!" Matthew insisted. "Don't you care about th-"

"For Christ's sake, Matthew! I said no!" Alfred roared, hand flying up and smashing through the wall to his right until it was buried all the way past his elbow.

Matthew's eyes widened and jumped back to avoid the bits of drywall that came tumbling out.

Alfred had never lost control like that, had never just lashed out at something before.

And it would only get worse.

Over a century and a half later, when he would look back on that night, on everything that had happened since then, it would be Alfred's next words that would stick with him the most, that would haunt him for years to come, and that would eventually plant that one, echoing seed of doubt in his mind.

It was with those words, in that instant, that Matthew knew, Alfred was not fully _there_, reasonably or rationally. At that moment, there was something much, much bigger than the simple pains of a nation at war going on inside his brother's head.

"People die, Matthew. It happens."

He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Alfred F Jones, letting innocent people _die_? Because it _happened_?

Never. It was unheard of. Impossible. In all the years that Matthew had known his brother -the centuries that had spent playing and fighting and growing together- Alfred had never said something quite so horrible or something with quite so much disregard for the lives of his people -of _any _people.

"You know as well as I do that that's what it takes to win. So stop acting like such a _child _and get over it."

Matthew stood, shell-shocked in disbelief.

Behind glinting glasses, Alfred's pale blue eyes were clouded with anger, indifference, and disgust.

In all his years on this Earth, Alfred had never looked quite so _wrong_.

Matthew said the only thing he could. "A-Alfred..." he shook his head. "What the hell has gotten into you? This is insane. You're not acting like yourself at all."

It was at those words that Alfred finally froze, his whole body completely rigid. He stayed like that for a full five seconds, all while something akin to realization mixed with a tinge of fear seemed to sink into his features.

And then he snapped.

"Goddamnit!" Alfred spun, lashing out with an arm and hitting nothing. He screamed in frustration, and one long stride later he was across the hall, kicking out the leg from beneath a decorative corner table. The offending limb snapped off as if it were made of straw, sailing across the room as the table collapsed down on itself.

Matthew gasped, eyes wide and fearful as he watched his brother literally break down before his very eyes.

Alfred had never lost control of his strength like that before. He had always been so careful with it, afraid that he might one day hurt someone accidentally. Seeing him now, like this, was absolutely terrifying.

Alfred turned on the broken table itself next, swinging out and launching it down the hall, the wood crunching beneath his force.

"Fuck!" He screamed again, eyes wild, chest heaving. "Why the fuck is this so fucking hard!"

Matthew backed up against the far wall, watching in silent horror as his brother turned, and for the second time in just minutes, smashed a full fist through the wall. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he stopped, arm still buried inside the drywall, and slowly turned his head.

Alfred's cold, hateful blue eyes locked onto those of his brother, teeth bared, dragging in shallow, raged breaths.

"Get out."

Matthew blinked, finally drawn from his shock.

"Wh-what?" was all he could manage.

"I said _get out_. Go home. Leave." Alfred's voice was eerily calm after the raw, unhinged power he had just demonstrated.

"Al..."

"_Now_, Matthew."

Matthew didn't move, caught between wanting to get the hell out of there as fast as possible and wanting to make sure his brother wasn't about to self-destruct.

"I said _get the fuck out_!" Alfred tore his arm from the wall, off-balance and unstable as he lashed out towards his brother, pulling back at the last moment.

They stayed like that for a long moment, Alfred's fist just inches away from his face.

Finally, Matthew peeled himself from the wall, slowly side stepping away. "Okay... It's okay, Al... I- I'm going..." he whispered, throat tight as he watched his brother uncertainly, eyes swimming with a mix of concern and fear. He began to back away, never breaking eye contact. "I'm going now, see?"

Matthew's whole body was shaking as he stumbled back down the front hall. He didn't even think to retrieve his coat from where it still hung, hands trembling as he reached out for the door handle, struggling to turn it in his haste to fulfil his brother's wishes and get away as fast as he could.

Before he could close the front door behind him, one last sound reached his ears.

Far away, somewhere in the maze of corridors which filled the mansion, Matthew thought he caught the echo of angry footsteps. The slamming of a heavy steel door. And a scream.

xXx

_Present day_

The stifling, empty silence was penetrated with a sharp gasp. Violet eyes flew open but were met with nothing but the same darkness they had been surrounded by when closed. It took Matthew a moment to remember where he was, the shadow of the dream still simmering in his mind, disorientating him.

The mattress beneath him was stiff against his back, and the sheets were soaked in cold sweat and twisted around his form as if they were trying to strangle him. Matthew fisted them into his hands, trying to get a sense of reality, to remind himself of where he was.

"'S just a dream," he mumbled to himself, throat hoarse. "Just a dream..."

_No, more than a dream... a memory. The same one as always..._

The dazed Canadian pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning his back against the cool wood of the headboard as he peeled the sheets from his body and reached out to where he assumed the bedside table to be. He hit the lamp's switch and the entire hotel room was instantly flooded with harsh light, momentarily blinding him.

Matthew shielded his eyes with one hand, while the one that had previously turned on the light was now groping around on the table for his glasses. He found them, fingers wrapping around the cold, smooth metal like some sort of lifeline and quickly sliding them onto his face.

He blinked, letting his eyes adjust. After a moment, he glanced back over to the bedside table, checking the blinking red numbers on digital clock.

_6:21 AM_

Matthew groaned internally, sliding down and letting his head flop back down onto the pillow. "Shit," he swore. "The meeting doesn't even start 'till eight-thirty..."

"Who?" came the sudden, quiet inquiry.

Matthew glanced down the length of his body to the foot of the bed. There, disguised in the white sheets, a beady-eyed bundle of fur blinked back up at him in question.

"Hi, Kuma..." Matthew offered a small smile. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

He sat up again, reaching over to scratch the bear in-between his ears, but he was quickly shaken off by the disgruntled creature.

"I said; who _are _you?"

Matthew frowned, pulling his hand away. "I'm Canada. _Matthew Williams_," he enunciated his name slowly. "Do you think you can at least _try _to remember this time?"

"No."

Matthew shook his head with a sigh. "Maybe next time, eh?" He had long since gotten use to being forgotten by his own pet. It was almost a king of ritual the two had going on. "You can go back to sleep if you want to, okay? I'm going to take a shower, seeing as I'm probably not going to be able to fall asleep again."

The bear nodded as Matthew climbed off the bed. Cold, bare feet padded across the hotel room's carpeted floor as the he made his way to the dresser on the far wall. Pausing in front of it, Matthew rifled through some drawers before pulling out a suitable outfit for the G20 meeting he would be attending later that day.

Dragging out a couple of ties, Matthew stood before a wall mounted full-length mirror, testing them out against the fabric of his chosen suit. After a moment, he huffed in indifference, tossing the collection of ties down on the bedspread.

"That one."

Matthew blinked, looking up as a small white paw landed on the red tie with the small maple leafs splattered across it.

He shook his head. "No, Kuma. You tell me to wear that one every time."

"Looks good," the bear urged.

"Yeah, well according to Alfred, it looks stupid." Matthew picked up the offending tie distastefully, tossing it back into the drawer he had gotten it from.

Kumajiro shook his head vigorously. "Not Alfred." He gave his owner a hard look which went completely unnoticed as the Canadian boy struggled to gather his outfit in his hands, having decided on a plain brown tie instead.

"Uh huh," Matthew replied offhandedly, starting towards the bathroom. "I'm taking my shower now, okay? Try not to destroy the room."

There was no reply, but Matthew wasn't surprised. Kumajiro often lost interest half way through a conversation and Matthew assumed the bear had probably just gone back to sleep.

He made his way to the restroom, flickering on the lights as he walked in and setting his clothes out across the counter before plucking his glasses off the bridge of his nose and placing them on top of the pile.

Stripping off the pyjamas he was currently wearing and tossing them into a pile in the corner, Matthew stepped into the shower. He turned the nozzle to full power, sighing in content when the heavy flow of hot water hit his chest. He turned, dipping his head forward and letting the heat work its magic on the many sore knots in his shoulders and back.

_Mon Dieu, I could just stay in here all day, _Matthew thought, already depressed by the mere aspect of knowing he would eventually have to get out.

He was _really _not looking forward to the World Summit today.

It was bad enough that he was only ever ignored, forgotten, or mistaken for someone else, but Matthew had gotten use to that. He had learned to put up with that. No, what really bothered him more than anything else, oddly enough, wasn't even about him.

It was about his brother.

A lot of the other nations had been getting on Alfred's case lately. At meetings they would constantly bring up problems like worsening economies, increasing debts, and increasing emission rates. Naturally, as nations, they would want to talk about things like that –would want to solve them, to make their countries better, safer, healthier places. Matthew understood that much.

The problem was when they started addressing the blame for all these problems.

Whose economy was going down the most? Who had the highest debt? Who was producing way more than their targeted emission rates? Who ran all the sweat shops in those third world nations? Who was stirring up a potential nuclear standoff with North Korea? Who had all these troops and resources that they were unwilling to share?

It all came back to America.

_Somehow they always make sure it does, _Matthew thought, reaching for the shampoo bottle and squirting a generous amount into his palm before beginning to massage it into his hair.

_Every single meeting, every single time. _

They singled him out. They complained about him, mocked him, blamed him. Sometimes they did it right to his face, other times they waited until he wasn't there, or they assigned blame in a more general, vague manner. But Matthew knew –hell _everyone _knew– they were always talking about America.

And yet despite all of this, Alfred just... took it.

Every insult, every complaint, every hateful jab at his people. He took it with his typical smile and cheerful demeanour. He would joke about things others wanted to be serious about, act like he didn't know others were making fun of him, laugh it all off.

But Matthew knew better.

He knew better than anyone that his brother was just the type of person who was afraid to show that he was hurting. He afraid to show weakness, least the others look down on him for it.

Matthew closed his eyes as he tipped his head back into the spray of water.

Yes, Alfred could act like an overly-energetic, air-headed, hero-centric little kid sometimes. But that didn't mean he didn't know what was going on in the world, that he didn't understand the seriousness of certain situations, that he didn't hurt just as much as the other nations, if not more.

Matthew didn't know why Alfred acted the way he did. He didn't see how having everyone think of him as an idiot would ever help the American in the long run, or how hiding his pain and acting like he didn't care about the pain of others would gain him any favour.

He only wished Alfred would be honest with himself, and that he would trust the others enough to not feel like he constantly needed to be hiding behind this mask, keeping his true feelings all bottled up inside. It couldn't be good for him, and one of these days he wasn't going to be able to hold it in anymore.

The mask was going to crack.

Matthew knew because he had seen it happen before. He had seen Alfred at his lowest, when he truly had been under so much pressure and pain that he had literally been unable to contain it anymore.

He was forced to relive that memory over and over again in his dreams. It was the same dream he had every time he started to get worried about Alfred or whenever he knew another big World Summit was coming up, when he knew pretty soon the entire planet would practically be verbally assaulting his brother.

Shaking his head, Matthew pulled himself back into reality, realizing he had gotten lost in his thoughts and had already been in the shower for way too long. Lathering up a wash cloth full of soap, the Canadian gave his lithe body a quick scrub before rinsing himself and finally shutting the water off.

Grabbing a fresh towel from the wall mounted rack, Matthew quickly used it to dry his hair before wrapping it around his waist and moving to stand in front of the mirror. Reaching out, he wiped the fog from the glass. Through his blurred vision, tired purple eyes surrounded by a pale, slim face blinked back at him. Without looking away, Matthew reached for his glasses and slid them back onto his face, the image in the mirror before him sliding into focus as he did.

Matthew dressed quickly and combed through his hair, trying and failing for a moment to tame that one stupid curl that always stuck out before finally giving up, realizing that like always, his effort were futile.

When he finally exited the restroom, Matthew nearly tripped over an unexpected pile of fur that just so happened to be seated directly outside the door. Catching himself against the wall, Matthew turned on his pet. "Kuma! What are y-"

"Late."

"Sorry?" Matthew asked

"Gonna' be late," Kumajiro repeated, annoyed at his owner's thick-headedness.

"What are you talking about?" Matthew asked. He stepped over the polar bear, peering into the bedroom area and checking the clock again. "It's only..."

_8:07_

"Fuck," Matthew swore. "How long was I in there for?" He could have _sworn _his shower hadn't been _that _long. The world meeting, currently being hosted in Paris, was halfway across the city from his hotel and Matthew barely had 20 minutes to get there.

It usually wasn't such a big deal if he was late for something. It wasn't like anyone would actually notice if he showed up or not, but Matthew had still always like arriving a little early. He usually tried to find Alfred so that he might at least have a chance to talk to him before the American would be forced to endure all the verbal berating that was sure to come.

Matthew was, and had been since that dreary day in 1863, more than a little anxious about everything that went on with America. He had vowed to keep a closer eye on his brother from then on. Even though Alfred had only ever snapped on him like that once, Matthew was still highly disturbed by the whole ordeal.

And he had to admit that recently his brother had, understandably, been acting a little strange. Alfred was going through a lot lately: a dropping economy and a rising dept, being the world's only superpower, being blamed for everyone else's problems. It was starting to take its toll on him. Matthew just hoped it wouldn't all amount to what it once had.

Matthew didn't ever want to see it become that bad again.

And as the pale Canadian left the room, the heavy door shutting behind him with a definitive click, he made a silent promise, to himself and to his brother.

He was going to do everything in his power to make sure that didn't happen.


	3. Bond

**Headcanons necessary to accept in order to understand this story:  
>- All nations have superhuman-esque healing abilities. This means any non-fatal injuries will heal extremely quickly; like, within a couple of days. The more serious the injury, the longer it takes to heal.<br>- This includes the loss of limbs, which will, given time, grow back. (Creepy, I know, but necessary for the story.)  
>- The only way a personification can <em>physically<em> be killed is if the injury attained causes instant death. If there is any chance at all for the body to heal itself before it dies, it will.**

* * *

><p>Lovino was just about ready to kill that damn bastard.<p>

Tap.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap.

He clenched his jaw in annoyance, trying to resist the urge to reach over to where he was sitting and give that moron a much needed punch in the face.

All around him, the World Summit meeting continued as if absolutely nothing were wrong; at the head of the table stood that damn German bastard, droning on about something or other while everyone else sat around the table in various displays of obvious boredom, only paying as much attention as they could care to muster.

Well, _almost _everyone.

Lovino huffed loudly, shooting the American seated beside him the best glare he could manage.

That goddamn, hero-obsessed, idiot of a nation was just staring off into space, chin his hands, elbows resting on the table, eyes glassy and completely oblivious to everyone else around him as he obnoxiously bounced his foot and up and down, _tap-tap-tap_ing away to some non-existent tune in his head.

He had literally been doing it for _two whole hours._

Lovino tensed his jaw even harder, using practically all his willpower to hold himself still, to hold himself back from saying something he would later regret.

_I swear to God, if he doesn't stop in the next minute, I am actually going to cut off that fucking foot. I really, really am. And maybe I'll cut out his tongue too, just for good measure._

One minute later, America was still tapping away and it Lovino could have sworn he could feel himself teetering over the brink of insanity.

"I am _never _sitting next to this bastard again," he muttered to himself, almost hoping the other nation would hear him.

He didn't even know why it was exactly that the tapping seemed to bother him so much. Really, if he thought about it, it was just tapping. He did it sometimes too, if he had a song stuck in his head or if he was feeling anxious about something.

It was just tapping; everyone did it.

But still. _Holy. Shit_.

For whatever reason, when America did it, the whole ordeal suddenly became that much more annoying.

_I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,_ the Italian chanted away in his head, trying to block out the intolerable tapping with his own thoughts.

_I hate you, America. I hate you so much. I hate you, I hate you, I really truly hate you._

Throughout this whole ordeal, the meeting taking place around him continued in a painstakingly normal fashion. No one else seemed bothered. No one else even seemed to notice.

Lovino sighed to himself in frustration, eyes sweeping the room, trying to find something else to concentrate on besides America's obnoxious, torturous, continuous tapping. Vaguely, he turned his gaze towards back to where it probably should have been this whole time, to the current speaker. Unfortunately for him, it was _still _Germany, _still _blathering away, _still _going on and on about god knew what.

"…need to know as soon as possible… could pose multiple problems to both economies… Padania wanting to break off from Italy…"

And just like that, Lovino's full attention had been captured once again.

_Oh, for fuck's fucking sake. Is he still going on about that damn Northern League movement?_

Lovino sat up straighter with hands splayed on the table before him, ready to lash out the German for even mentioning such an idiotic idea, but before he even could, a high voice spoke up from somewhere in the crowd of nations.

"Uh, but Ludwig!" Feliciano sang, his cheery tone completely out of place in such a drab situation. "I don't even _want _to separate from my big brother. We love each other!"

From his position behind the podium at the front of the room, Germany frowned. "Italy, please. Just because you 'love' each other, that does not mean your citizens are not going to pass this census. If this happens, it's going to have major effects on everyone, and therefore we will need to know in advance. This is a serious matter."

"He _is _being serious," Lovino spoke up suddenly, scowling at the German through narrowed eyes. "So stop talking to him like he's a fucking idiot."

The room went dead silent, all eyes turning to him. Everybody was suddenly sitting up just a little bit straighter. Germany looked especially taken aback -an odd replacement for his usual stern and stoic expression.

Lovino pushed off from the arms of his chair, standing to full height. "Nobody talks to my brother like that except me."

Beside him, America's foot kept tapping away.

Lovino huffed, fists clenched at his sides. He was already in a terrible mood, had been forced to sit through two hours of pure torture, and now he was suddenly expected to deal with _this _bullshit. Of course Germany just _had _to go and bring up that stupid fucking rumour that was going around that the North and South of Italy actually wanted to split into their own fucking countries.

What a load of shit.

Back at the front of the room, Germany seemed to be trying to recover. "I wasn't- South Italy, I wasn't speaking to him like he was an idiot. I was just-"

"It may not seem like it to you, but to Feliciano that _is_ a perfectly valid, perfectly sensible reason as to why our two halves couldn't possibly split. First of all, the Northern League movement is just some dumb rumour, and was never going to happen anyway; and secondly, even if it wasn't, my brother legitimately thinks loving each other is simply enough to keep us together." Lovino crossed his arms over his chest in a huff, eyes narrowed, daring anyone to challenge him.

Poland was the first to step up to the plate. "Yeah, okay. And exactly would you know? Can you, like, read his mind or something?" he laughed.

Lovino's scowl deepened. "No, of course not. I just… I just know, okay? I just do. "

This statement was met with a few quizzical looks from around the room.

"Oh, for the love of- No, I can't read his mind, but yes, I know how he's feeling! I always have, I always will, alright you bastards?" Lovino pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration as he tried to explain. "It's this goddamn _bond _we have. My brother and I can feel each other's pain, sense each other's emotions, that kind of shit. I don't know, I guess it's because we're both the same country, and _obviously_," he directed this next part at Germany, "that's the way it's supposed to be; otherwise there wouldn't even _be _two of us. We're not something you can just _rip apart._"

There was a long pause following this outburst, as the majority of the room stared back and forth between the two Italians with varying degrees of skepticism.

All except for Feliciano, who had been nodding along with everything his brother had been saying, and now sat back comfortably as if completely unaware of the tension in the room, face relaxed into a smile of content.

A couple of chairs down, Denmark slowly raised a hand to speak.

"So… what you're saying is… whatever one of you is feeling, the other one feels too?"

"Yes!" Lovino exclaimed, exasperated. "Is it that hard to understand?"

"But how does it even work?"

"Hell if I know!" Lovino threw his hands up in the air. "Listen, all I know for certain is that when that moron," he pointed at his brother almost accusingly, "cuts open an onion and get fucking onion juice in his eye," he pointed back to himself, "_I_ can feel it!"

"It's true!" Feliciano suddenly piped up from across the table, turning the attention on himself. "And every time Lovino talks to Antonio and his chest gets all warm and fuzzy inside, I feel it too!"

The whole table went silent.

The initial reaction of each nation was to stare, wide-eyed in shocked silence at the small Italian. Then, slowly, each head turned in the direction of Lovino, who was still standing at his chair, his entire face flushed beat red.

_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to die, right then and there, never to have to deal with his stupid brother and his big fat fucking mouth ever again.

Somewhere across the room, a small, poorly concealed snicker started up, breaking the silence.

And just like that, the flood gates were opened. Voice after voice erupted, each louder than the last.

"Too much information, Italy. Like, seriously," Poland stifled a giggle, hand over his mouth.

Hungary gave a small squeal, sharing a delighted looking smile with Japan.

Even Finland was chuckling to himself. _Finland! _Of all fucking people!

Lovino's felt his entire face flush in embarrassment, lips pressed together in a tight, angry line as he slowly sank back down into his chair, fighting the urge to hide his face.

Back at the front of the room, Germany was trying and failing to call everything back to order.

"Please, everyone. Settle down, we still have to- France, please. Your chair is going to tip over."

The Frenchman continued to laugh, perhaps the loudest of all. "It looks like poor Antonio's efforts have finally begun paying off, no?"

Lovino felt his face heating up even more. "Shut up, bastard!"

Before he could respond with another jab, Antonio cut him off, eyes bright and hopeful. "Is it true, Lovi?" he asked, smiling radiantly. "Do I really make you feel warm and fuzzy?"

"I said shut up!" Lovino huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking down in his seat in attempt to make himself less visible, while in his head, he cursed his brother in every language and with every blasphemy he could think of.

_Clueless. Absolutely fucking clueless. __Thanks to him now everyone's going to make fun of me and I know Antonio will __**never **__let this go and still have to sit through five more fucking hours of this fucking meeting with that stupid Germany and stupid France and stupid American tapping his fucking foot like some kind-_

Lovino stopped his internal rant mid thought, suddenly sitting up a little straighter.

_Wait a minute…_

America's foot wasn't tapping anymore.

Eyes narrowed, the sour-tempered Italian shot America a sideways glance. Beside him, the Western nation was sitting perfectly still, back straight, fists clenched tightly in his lap, and looking entire disinterested in to chaos around him, as if too deep in thought to care.

Both of his feet rested firmly on the ground beneath him.

Lovino watched him with a quizzical look for a couple of seconds before rolling his eyes and looking away.

_Yeah, well, _he thought. _I still hate him._

xXx

Matthew frowned to himself as he watched the disastrous scene before him unfurl.

South Italy was sinking as far as he could into his chair, as if trying to hide himself behind the edge of the conference table. His face was an impossible shade of red as all around the other nations smirked and snickered, some nearly brought to tears of laughter at what the Italian's northern counterpart had just revealed.

Some, but definitely not all.

Matthew's frown deepened as his eyes scanned across the faces of the various nations sitting opposite to him before landing on a certain American.

Alfred had always had a particularly _distinguishable _laugh, and Matthew would have thought his brother would be one of the people laughing the hardest at the chaotic scene that had just taken place. He found it odd that now of all times his brother chose to remain completely silent. Alfred had the unfortunate habit of almost never paying attention when something important that didn't directly affect his country was being discussed. But somehow he always managed to be the first to chime in (and usually makes things worse) when the discussions started to get out of hand.

And yet today he seemed to be doing exactly the opposite.

Despite the fact that Alfred had been sitting like usual, chin in hands, staring down at the table with a bored expression, incessantly humming to himself, Matthew knew he had been listening to the earlier discussion about Northern Italy and Southern Italy splitting.

Because he had reacted.

The meeting had started out fairly normally, and as far as he could tell, Alfred had seemed perfectly fine until about two minutes ago when South Italy had been still speaking.

Like most of the room's other occupants, Matthew's attention had been easily captured when South Italy had stood up in defence of North Italy, and so he hadn't really been paying much attention to Alfred at first. Yet somewhere along the lines, as South Italy digressed into his explanation of this strange he and his twin supposedly shared, Alfred had started acting... oddly.

As of that moment, said odd behaviour persisted. Alfred was sitting, back rigid, expression dark and unreadable, eyes cast downward. He was perfectly still and perfectly silent.

For whatever reason, South Italy's words had enticed such a reaction from his brother. Why that was exactly, Matthew had absolutely no idea.

Maybe it was just the dream he had last night, maybe it was just that stupid old memory resurfacing, maybe it was just him being paranoid and over-sensitive and worrisome… but he had a bad feeling about this.

A really, really bad feeling.

xXx

The meeting had temporarily been adjourned for a thirty minute lunch break, giving the nations a much needed chance to eat, stretch out, get some fresh air, and hopefully all calm down.

Matthew stood up quickly, eyes locked onto Alfred's form from across the room as all around him the nations were in various stages of exiting the conference hall. Through the sea of bodies surrounding the table, Matthew could just make out his brother, still looking tense and avoiding everyone's gaze but already on his feet and gathering his things together.

_I should probably go see him,_ he thought, reaching for his own notes and shuffling them together against the table's marble surface. _I mean, just to make sure he's okay…_

With a light sigh, he tossed the papers into his briefcase and clipped it shut before sliding it beneath his chair. He looked up, hoping his might catch his brother's eye.

His seat was empty. Alfred was gone.

Matthew blinked. _Okay, that was fast._

He glanced around, hoping Alfred was at least still in the room, but had no such luck. The American was nowhere to be seen, andd with two exits both on opposite sides of the room Matthew had no way of knowing which way his brother had even left in.

He sighed.

Matthew looked around once again, this time his eyes pausing not on his brother's empty chair, but the figure beside it. _That's right, _he thought. South Italy had been sitting beside Alfred the whole time. _Maybe he saw which way Al went._

Only that meant Matthew was actually going to have to ask him.

Unable to think of any other options, Matthew took a deep breath, mustering up what little courage he had as he began to make his way across the room. _Here goes nothing… _He swallowed a rising lump in his throat as he took the last couple of steps to close the distance between South Italy and himself.

He raised a tentative hand, giving the smaller Italian a light tap on the shoulder.

"Excuse me? South Italy?"

South Italy's head whipped around, causing Matthew to pull his hand back sharply. His expression was already fixed in to a deep-set scowl as he glared at the timid Canadian, seemingly daring him to make any kind of comment involving the words 'warm' or 'fuzzy'.

"What?" he snapped.

"Oh, well, I was just- I…" Matthew mentally berated himself for stumbling over his words so much, not missing the way South Italy's scowl softened, looking more confused now than irritated. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Did you, um, by any chance, see where my brother went?"

South Italy raised an eyebrow, looking him over for a long moment. Matthew shuffled his feet awkwardly, uncomfortable with the piercing attention.

"Your… brother?" South Italy finally asked.

"Yes."

"Right…" he said slowly. "And you are?"

Matthew closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a sigh. _Of course. How could I have forgotten? _"I'm Canada."

South Italy blinked.

"I'm America's brother."

"Oh, that bastard?" South Italy's scowl returned at the mere mention of the other nation. "No, I've got no idea where he went; and honestly? I couldn't care less."

"Oh." Matthew lowered his head, defeated. "Well, um, thanks anyway," he said, stepping back.

_Well that was completely unhelpful, _he thought dejectedly.

He turned away, spying the nearest of the two exits and starting towards it, hoping Alfred had done the same.

Slipping into the hall outside, Matthew scanned the faces of the quickly thinning crowd of nations. There was still no sign of his brother. Then, following a cluster of South American nations, he eventually found his way to the break room and peered inside.

Again, Alfred was nowhere to be seen.

Matthew wrung his hands together nervously, still unable to shake that ominous feeling from before.

_Damnit, where could he be?_

The quiet Canadian proceeded to spend the next twenty or so minutes wandering the building in a seemingly fruitless search for his elusive brother, eventually moving far enough away from the others that one might think he was the only person in that entire half of the building. With every room he scoured and every empty hall he walked along, the seed of worry in his stomach grew heavier and heavier.

_Where the heck is he? _Matthew thought to himself. _It's not like he could have just run off. I mean, he has to be back in the conference room in less than… _He pulled up his sleeve, glancing at his watch _… five minutes._

Matthew froze just as he was about to round another corner.

_Shit! That means **I** have to be back there in less than five minutes!_

He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. _Well, this is just **great**. _He had spent nearly the entire break looking for Alfred, hadn't gotten to freshen up or even eat anything and he _still_ had absolutely no idea where his brother was.

_Wonderful, _he thought dryly, lips pressed together in a tight line.

Turning back the way he had come, Matthew began the long walk back towards the conference room, hoping maybe he'd be able to grab something from the fridge in the break room on his way by.

With his mind occupied with thoughts of an empty stomach, he wasn't entirely focused on where he was going and was surprised when he rounded the first corner only to collide face first with what felt like a brick wall.

A muffled "Oompft" escaped Matthew lips as he stumbled backwards from the impact, hands flying out in front of him and grasping at the air in attempt to catch himself.

"Whoa there!" A firm grasp latched onto one of his forearms, holding the startled Canadian up, letting go only when whoever it belonged to was convinced he was steady enough to stand on his own again.

Matthew blinked a couple of times, his free hand moving up to adjust his glasses, which had nearly been knocked off.

"A-Alfred?" he asked, disbelieving.

"The one and only," came the cheery response. "You should really watch where you're going, Mattie. If it wasn't for my epic hero-ness someone coulda' gotten hurt."

Matthew looked over his brother's smiling face, noting how… _normal _he suddenly seemed to be.

"Matt? Earth to Matthew? You there?"

"Right, sorry," Matthew apologized quickly, realizing he had been staring.

Alfred laughed. "You didn't hit your head too hard there, did ya'?"

"No, it's just I was a little surprised to finally find you, that's all."

"Find me?" Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah. I was looking everywhere for you. Where'd you run off to anyway?"

Alfred smiled again, as if what Matthew had just said was some kind of a joke. "What are you talking about? I didn't 'run off' anywhere." He reached up to adjust his own glasses, despite the fact that they were still in perfect place, almost like he was stalling. "I was in the break room."

Matthew paused, blinking a couple of times as he digested Alfred's words. "No, you weren't," he said slowly. "I checked the break room and you weren't there."

Alfred's gaze flitted back and forth between his brother's eyes and something distant just over his shoulder, looking restless yet tense at the same time. "We should really head back now. Isn't the summit going to start again soon?" he said suddenly.

Matthew wasn't ready to let the topic slip quite that easily. "Yeah, sure thing; but seriously, where were you?"

"I just needed a little fresh air, _okay?_" Alfred snapped unexpectedly.

And there it was again! That same look Alfred had had when South Italy had been talking, and that same sharp sting in his words from that one night so many years ago. Matthew swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly gone dry and that nagging sense of anxiety once again making itself known within him.

"Jeez, Matt," Alfred continued quickly, his tone suddenly light again. "Why concern yourself with stuff that doesn't even matter?"

Matthew struggled for a moment to find the right words. "I-I'm just a little worried abou-"

"Well, you shouldn't be," Alfred cut in. "Seriously. After all, I _am_ the hero!" He laughed triumphantly, appearing to have already forgotten about the heavy atmosphere that had fallen over them just a moment ago.

The American reached out, grabbing his brother by the wrist and nearly dragging him along as he made his way down the hall. "Come on, bro! We don't wanna' be late!" he called over his shoulder.

For a moment, Matthew thought about the bond the Italian brothers shared, and was suddenly jealous of how they could always tell what the other was thinking and feeling. He looked ahead to his own brother who was still dragging him along and considered his mysterious and worrisome behaviour. Never before had Matthew felt like his brother was hiding something important from him. Now, he was almost certain of it.

Something was definitely wrong, and one way or another, Matthew intended to find out what it was.


	4. Double

**AN: fuck this is going to be a long story**

* * *

><p>Matthew leaned back, rocking the kitchen chair up onto its back legs, and stretched his arms above his head.<p>

It had been a long day.

It was only day two of the five day long World Summit, and somehow things had managed to get even more out of hand than the previous day. Matthew still had a headache from all the yelling, and based on how little they got through today, he was willing to bet that tomorrow Germany would be on everyone's case even more so than usual.

He sighed, letting the chair fall back on to all fours as he glanced across the hotel suite's small kitchen to the digital clock blinking above the stove. It was only seven o'clock, but Matthew was already dead tired. He stood, snatching his half-eaten diner from the table before him and placing the plate on the counter before trudging his way out of the kitchen, hitting the lights as he did.

He made his way to the restroom where he quickly washed up and changed into a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt before shuffling into the bedroom. He then flopped down beneath the soft, warm confines of the comforter.

Plucking off his glasses, he rolled over to place them gently on the night-stand by his head, only to come face-to-face with a pair of dark, beady eyes set in snowy white fur.

"Oh," Matthew blinked in surprise, having had completely forgotten about the bear. "Hey Kuma," he said, reaching around the bear to put his glasses away and giving him a scratch behind the ears as he retracted his hand.

The small creature hardly reacted. Instead, he just sat perfectly still, staring back up at his owner with an attentive, almost contemplative look.

Matthew expected the usual 'Who?' from the bear, but instead, Kumajiro came out with something completely different.

He commented on Matthew's appearance.

"Look tired."

"Heh," Matthew snuffed dryly, thinking back to how hectic the day had been. "I should think so."

"Bad day?" the bear asked, still staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

_That's odd, Kumajiro's never asked me about my day before._

Matthew frowned to himself before responding. "Well actually, yeah. Yeah, it was."

"Why?"

Matthew quirked an eyebrow at the odd replacement for his usual one-worded question, but found himself replying anyway.

"You know, the usual. Things were just really crazy and out-of-hand today. Everyone was so loud and nobody was paying attention. Plus, Francis and Arthur got into another fight in the break room and everyone had to clear out, so I didn't get to eat again. Not to mention how everyone forgot when it was my turn to talk, so I never actually got to say anything important. And then China kept purposely bringing up how much debt…" Matthew trailed off, already frowning at the thought.

Beside him, Kumajiro nodded encouragingly, trying to get the Canadian to finish his thoughts.

Matthew sighed, but continued nonetheless. "It's just that China really seemed to be on Al's case today. He kept mentioning how much debt America was in and how irresponsible that was and how if Al 'ever actually took his responsibilities seriously' he could probably have most of it paid off by now." Matthew sighed heavily. "I mean, I get that China's probably frustrated by how much money Alfred owes him, but he didn't have to keep bringing it up all day long, you know?" he finally finished, voice rising a few notches in exasperation.

He rolled back over, folding his hands over his stomach and squinting up at the blurred ceiling. "I mean, it's not like the _whole _thing is _solely _Al's fault. And even if it was, it's not like there was anything Al could have done about it _today_, so bringing it up every five freaking minutes wasn't going to make any difference."

Matthew turned his head, looking back over to his bear. "I'm just worried about him, you know? Even if he acts like it's no big deal, it's still bound to be taking its toll on him."

Kumajiro cocked his head to the side. "Who?"

Matthew deadpanned. "Seriously? Weren't you listening at all?"

"Yes, but _who_?" Kumajiro repeated forcefully.

"I _told _you," Matthew repeated with just as much force, starting to get a little irritated. "Alfred, that's who."

Kumajiro gave him a long, hard look. "No," he said finally. "Not Alfred."

Matthew blinked, brow furrowing in confusion as his mind registered the sudden shift in conversation.

_Oh god, not this again…_

"Seriously, what the heck is with you _always_ saying that?" he demanded suddenly. "I remember when you use to never say it and now it's almost as common as 'who?'" He rolled over to face the bear fully, propping his head up on his elbow. "What, have you forgotten who Alfred is now too?"

Kumajiro shook his head, looking frustrated. "No!" he whined. "It's not!"

"Not _what_?"

"Not Alfred!"

"Right, of course. Because that clears _everything _up." Matthew rolled his eyes, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

Kumajiro just continued to stare at him.

"Fine, you know what? You win." Matthew gave in. "I'll humour you."

_It's not like I have anything better to do, _he thought dryly.

"So," he began, "if what you're trying to tell me is true, then the guy staying in the suite just down the hall from me – the one who looks and acts just like my brother – yeah, that's not really him?"

Kumajiro nodded his head encouragingly.

"Uh-huh," Matthew said skeptically, wondering where exactly this conversation was leading. "So, this 'imposter' here isn't really America?"

Kumajiro pouted, shaking his head. "Not _Alfred_," he corrected.

"Oh, silly me. Of course he's _America_, just not _Alfred." Because that makes total sense. _

As if he could read Matthew's thoughts, the bear attempted to clarify.

"Two," he said simply.

"What?" Matthew asked, having not followed the jump in conversation.

"Two," Kuma repeated, as if it were just _that _obvious. "Two of them."

Matthew just shook his head, feeling far too tired to question his bear's strangeness anymore. "You don't make any sense, you know that?" he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

Kumajiro opened his mouth to say something, looking frustrated, but Matthew cut in before he could continue with a long yawn.

"Whatever." The exhausted Canadian rolled back over, facing away from the bear. "Listen, I'm going to bed now, okay?" Matthew hit the switch on the lamp beside his bed, pulling the covers up under his chin as his eyes slipped shut. Behind him, Kumajiro gave a familiar whine, pawing incessantly at the back of his owner's shoulder.

"Go to sleep, Kuma," Matthew mumbled, shrugging off the bear's paw.

"Two," he persisted.

"I said _go to sleep._"

Kumajiro gave a displeased grumble, but not another word was spoken after that.

xXx

Matthew dragged his feet sluggishly through the halls surrounding the conference room, squinting up at the too-bright chandeliers which decorated the impressive hall.

_Why does it have to be so freaking bright in here?_ He scowled, reaching up to lift his glasses and rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

Matthew had had just about the worst sleep of his life last night, having only realized his mistake of going to bed _way _too early when he had woken up at 1:17 AM, heart pounding and drenched in cold sweat after having had the _same _nightmare about 1863 yet again. He had been unable to fall back asleep afterwards, and had spent the rest of his night tossing and turning, counting down the hours as he waited for sunrise.

And to make matters worse, Kumajiro had, for whatever reason, been mad at him, and had decided to give Matthew the 'silent treatment' all morning. Every time Matthew had tried to start up a conversation with the bear to pass the time, he would just grumble something incoherent and stomp away.

Sighing at the thought, the tired Canadian made his way through the thinning crowd surrounding the conference room and quickly found his seat. He waited silently as the rest of the world's nations trickled in – some alone, some in groups of two or three – and found their respective seats around the table.

Most of them were too preoccupied by their own conversations to noticed Matthew sitting there, alone. No one stopped to chat, or to say hello, or even really seemed to acknowledge his presence at all. It didn't bother him though; Matthew was use to it. Besides, at the moment, there were far more important things than his own lonesome thoughts preoccupying his mind.

Across the room, an annoyed looking Brit had just entered, tailed by the loudest and most exuberant of his ex-colonies. Matthew watched closely as the two nations made their way around the crowded table, Arthur looking for his assigned seat and Alfred following behind, chatting away. Their conversation (if he could even call it that) seemed normal enough; Alfred was doing most of the talking and Arthur was looking as if he were trying his best to not reach around and smack the American upside the head.

Which, again, was a pretty normal sight whenever those two were together.

They were too far away for Matthew to be able to hear whatever they were talking about, but it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway, as Arthur soon found his empty seat near the door. Alfred, pouting disappointedly after having been cut-off mid-sentence, was forced to move on to his own chair, across the table and to the left of Matthew.

Moments later, Germany stood, making his position at the head of the table known as he called the meeting to order. It started like any other, with Germany conducting the discussion and everyone else at least trying to pay attention for the first couple of minutes.

Matthew, however, soon found he was having a hard time concentrating. Despite his best efforts to focus his gaze, his gaze kept drifting to his brother instead of where he knew it should be.

He found he was starting to feel a little foolish.

Thinking about it now, Matthew could honestly say that besides that one time during the Civil War, Alfred has almost never lost control, and other than his tiny outburst in the halls yesterday, he had never really shown any signs that he was even struggling to keep it together. Yet somehow Matthew still couldn't help but feel like something was off about him.

Matthew knew it was more than his usual worry about how the other nations were treating the American or the tinge of anxiety that came with his reoccurring nightmare about him. It was something completely different.

Though what bothered Matthew the most was that he had no way to confirm that what he thought Alfred felt was actually how Alfred felt. He had no evidence to back up the suspicion that something was wrong and had absolutely no real reason to believe it was in the first place.

He was beginning to wonder if maybe he was just being a little paranoid after all.

He was beginning to wonder if Alfred was starting to notice.

Matthew fidgeted in his seat, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared down at his lap.

Alfred wasn't blind, after all, and Matthew _had_ been watching him all morning and all throughout the meeting yesterday.

_What if he_ has_ noticed?_ Matthew fretted, wringing his hands together beneath the table. _What if he asks me about it? _

What the heck was he supposed to say then? _"Oh, it's nothing, Al. I've just been watching you like a hawk because I'm afraid all the stress is starting to get to you and one day you're finally going to crack and lose your mind."_

_Yeah, because that'll go over _so _well, _he thought sardonically.

"…regards to what the UN will be doing to help quell the civil unrest rising in many parts of Syria. Canada, we will begin with you."

Matthew froze, thoughts suddenly snapping back into focus. He had barely caught the last few words of the sentence just spoken, but it was just enough to gather his attention. In an instant, he was painfully aware of all the eyes turning towards him, including Germany's, who stood at the head of the table, staring at him expectantly.

_Did… Did another nation just address me? _

_Me?_

_In an actual meeting?_

The startled Canadian blinked a couple of times, glancing around his surroundings as his heart began thumping erratically.

"Um," he said.

Matthew felt his palms begin to sweat, as he came to realization that he didn't actually know what they were supposed to be talking about right now.

"Am I to presume that you will be sending in more of your peacekeeping troops?" Germany pressed impatiently.

"Uh, right…" Matthew stammered out.

_Come on, Matt. Just keep it together. Whatever he's talking about, you're probably already doing it. Just go with it._

"Right," he tried again, clearing his throat. "Yes. Yes, I have, and I'll continue to do so if, um, required."

"Good." Germany nodded, apparently satisfied. "Moving on, then. Now, as we all know, the UN observer patrol has recently arrived at the massacre site, and has reported finding…"

And just like that, all the attention was turned away from him. As quickly as it had happened, the spotlight had been whisked away, not a single person in the room left looking at who it had once been on.

Matthew breathed a heavy sigh of relief, slumping down in his chair.

He had never been good at thinking on the spot. Or speaking in front of a large audience. Or really anything that involved either of the two.

_I supposed I should probably start paying attention now, _he thought sheepishly. _At least until I find where the hell he just agreed to sending my troops to._

"Unfortunately, as of this moment there is little more the UN can do for Syria besides sending in more observer patrols and perhaps a few more peacekeeping troops. The Canadian military, as previously mentioned, is willing to be the one to send these peacekeepers in," the German continued in that deep, booming voice of his.

Matthew's eyes widened in realization as the remaining pieces of the puzzle fell into place. _That's right, there's a civil war going on in Syria right now, isn't there?_

"However," Germany added. "If the rebel attacks and civil unrest continues to escalate, more drastic measures may have to be taken-"

"Are you kidding me?" a sharp voice cut in suddenly.

Germany froze mid-sentence, gaze hard and locked onto a figure just a couple of seats down from Matthew, who – along with everyone else in the room – followed his line of sight, landing on a very, _very _angry looking Cuban.

"Excuse me?" Germany spoke calmly, but his cool gaze demanded an explanation for the interruption.

"You _may _start taking more drastic measures if things start to _escalate_?" Cuba repeated incredulously. "Are you blind?"

"Cuba," Germany warned sternly.

"Haven't you been paying attention to _anything_ going on in the world besides in your own damn country?" he demanded. "Less than two months ago your useless observer patrols found thirteen dead bodies in eastern Syria, all shot in the head and laying around just waiting for the vultures. And since then there have been dozens of rebel attacks and hostage situations and massacres. I don't things could possibly _'escalate' _any more than they already have!"

A prolonged silence followed the angry outburst, the other members of the room eyeing the Cuban warily until finally Germany sighed, rubbing his temples. "Carlos, please. There's nothing more the UN can do at the moment. The Syrian government won't let us bring in-"

Cuba whirled on him. "Oh, come on! You're the _United Nations_. One puny government in the midst of a civil war can't possibly stop you guys from going in there and doing what needs to be done."

Germany shook his head, looking exasperated. "You know as well as I do, it's not that simple."

"It can be," Cuba replied heatedly. "_Especially _when you've got a global superpower on your side." He shot a pointed glare at a particular American.

Back in his seat, Matthew had been watching the entire argument like a tennis match, head snapping back and forth between Germany and Cuba, cringing occasionally at the level of the Caribbean nation's voice. Then, at the mention of his brother, he froze.

And suddenly he knew exactly where this was all going.

Carlos and Alfred had never gotten along, and Cuba had always excelled in finding ways to blame the latter for most – if not all – of the world's problems. Alfred, of course, had always waved off the verbal attacks with a smile and laugh, but that usually only ended up serving as something else Cuba would use against him – that he was 'careless' and 'lazy' and 'never took anything seriously.'

The Canadian mentally slapped himself in the face. _Of course _Cuba would find a way to bring this all back to America. He nearly always did.

For what must have been the hundredth time that day, Matthew glanced across the table to his brother.

Alfred sat like usual, leaning back in his chair casually with his hands resting on the table's cool surface and grinning that typical lackadaisical smile of his. The only difference was that he actually appeared to be paying a considerable amount of attention to what was going on in the meeting around him. (Although Matthew was willing to guess that this had most likely only happened when he had heard himself being mentioned.)

Now that he had turned the discussion in the direction he wanted it to go in, Cuba pressed on heatedly.

"I mean, seriously, we all know how easy it would be for America to use his power to just settle all of this already. He's got the resources, the weapons, the forces. He could finish this in a heartbeat if he wanted to." Cuba waved his arms around animatedly. "But has he done anything? Does he plan to do anything? Does he plan to help _anyone_?" He narrowed his eyes, glowering at the American."No. No he doesn't. And do you know why?" Cuba asked, addressing the entire room as a whole. "Because he's lazy and he's selfish and he _just doesn't care_. Isn't that right, America?"

Just then, a new voice cut in to the one-sided conversation. "That's enough, Carlos. We all know how you feel about the lad, alright? But this is just unnecessary."

Despite the situation, Matthew smiled ever-so-slightly to himself. At least _someone _was willing to stand up for Alfred. England had always been one of the few nations that – while clearly highly annoyed and irritated by him – would at least _try_ to be nice to America.

But Cuba would not be deterred. "It's _completely _necessary!" he persisted. "He's a coward, and he deserves to be exposed for it!"

Back across the table, Alfred gave a loud snort of laughter, and a ripple of silence fell across the table as everyone turned towards him, staring with various levels of confusion, concern, and annoyance.

"You think this is _funny_, America?" Cuba growled.

"I think it's _hilarious_," he mocked, chuckling again.

Cuba clenched his fists. "Well then, why don't you explain the joke to everyone else, since you seem to be the only one who gets it?" he spat through gritted teeth.

"Gladly," Alfred grinned, sitting up a bit straighter as to address the rest of the room. "I just find it amusing that every time you stand up, it's 'cause you've got something bad to say about me. You're always going on and on about all the shitty things my country's done, but you don't even stop to think about any of the good stuff, do ya'?"

"Like what?" Cuba challenged.

"I dunno', _stuff._" Alfred waved his hands dismissively. "Like how my government funds tons of charities and environmental groups and whatnot."

Matthew bit his lip nervously, knowing an answer as vague and shallow as that wasn't going to help his brother's cause at all right now.

"A couple of charities and environmental groups isn't going to make up for all of the damage you've done, and it sure as hell isn't going to make up for the fact that you're just going to sit around and watch Syria tear himself to shreds."

At this point, Matthew was seriously starting to become worried again. He kept glancing over at Alfred, trying to read his emotions. Sure, he still looked calm enough, but Cuba seemed pretty intent to get his point across, and didn't look like he was anywhere near finished.

Germany sighed heavily. "Why don't we all just sit down and talk about this like the calm, civilized professionals we're supposed to be?"

"Yeah, just chill out already," Alfred agreed from his position at his chair.

Cuba slammed a fist down on the table, springing to his feet and turning on the rest of the table's occupants and addressing them instead. "Look at him!" he gestured towards Alfred. "It's disgusting how little he cares!" He turned back towards the American. "And you of all people too! You might be selfish and stupid, but if anyone knows what it's like to go through the pain and suffering of a civil war, it's you, America."

Matthew's froze, cringing internally at the Caribbean nation's sharp words.

_Does he seriously have to bring **that** up? Now, of all times? _Matthew fretted, glaring at the Cuban and wondering where along the lines the conversation even managed to derail to this extent.

The American Civil War had always been a touchy subject, and if the nations knew anything, it was that you _did not _bring it up in front of Alfred. You just didn't.

And whenever someone did… well, it never ended well.

England tried to cut in again, looking somewhat anxious as he glanced back and forth between where America sat and where Cuba stood. "Cuba, I think you sh-"

Cuba pressed on, ignoring the Brit. "Come on, America! We all know how badly it affected you! And now it's happening to a fellow nation! Are you really just going to let that happen?"

He glanced over at his brother then, hoping against reason he was okay and completely expecting otherwise. What he saw there instead surprised him even more.

Alfred's casual, laid-back mannerism was gone, replaced instead by tensed, guarded posture and a dark expression. Matthew stared, shocked by the sudden flip of demeanour. Alfred just watched the Cuban with a distasteful glare, lips turned slightly upwards in a hateful sneer.

"Are you really going to sit back and do nothing while another nation is literally _splitting itself in two_?" Cuba persisted, voice full of hate and anger and blame.

Matthew could have sworn he saw his brother's face give a slight twitch.

"If you're so damn 'heroic' then why the hell don't you prove it, huh? Why don't you actually do some good for someone else in this world?"

A long, heavy silence followed this statement, the rest of the room's occupants waiting to see if the Cuban was finished and how the American would react. Matthew bit his lip to hard he could feel it drawing blood, eyes flickering between the two focal points of the room, but Alfred just stared on, having not moved a single muscle.

_Shit. _Matthew clenched his eyes shut as tightly as possible in pure frustration, steeling himself for what was to come next.

And then Alfred spoke.

"Naw, I'm good."

Matthew cracked his eyes open, peering his brother in disbelief.

From where he stood, Cuba sounded just as surprised.

"You're… _good_?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Alfred said coolly.

Cuba just shook his head, a high, cold laugh escaping his lips. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked incredulously. "Syria is being _torn apart _right now, he's being _ripped to shreds_ by war, and you're honestly going to sit there and tell me that _you're good_?"

"Yeah," Alfred said simply, leaning back in his chair and watching the Cuban almost thoughtfully.

Cuba just continued to shake his head. "You know, sometimes I wish you had lost that fucking war of yours," he stated boldly, daring to toss in such a sensitive subject as if it were nothing at all. "Maybe then you would have a little more respect for th-"

Alfred stood up sharply, chair tipping over from the sudden motion and clattering to the floor behind him.

Cuba stopped, cut off from his rant by the sudden motion.

Alfred's head was low, his bangs covering his face from the hundreds of pairs of eyes watching him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Alfred said, voice low and threatening, almost a growl. "You have no idea."

Cuba opened his mouth one more time, face contorting into an angry scowl.

"You have _no fucking idea_!" Alfred exploded, the volume of his voice practically shaking the walls, causing everyone to flinch back.

In one swift motion, Alfred hurled himself nearly halfway across the room, long strides carrying him towards the closest exit.

Matthew just watched on, frozen in place with uncertainty. He briefly wondered if he should try to stop his brother, but he knew anything he said or did at this point would be completely useless. He glanced around desperately, hoping another nation with more authority might try to step in.

The only move made was England, who reached out to his ex-colony as Alfred marched past his seat.

"Alfred, please…" he said, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of the American's sleeve before Alfred shoved it away without a second glance.

Wordlessly, Alfred reached the main exit, still tensed and hyper-aware of all the eyes trained on him. He pushed through with the force of a tank, the huge wooden doors flying open and hitting the outside wall as Alfred sped through before bouncing off and slamming shut again.

The echoes of quickly fading footsteps from the hall outside were all that filled the long, tensed silence afterwards.

"So, that was kind of crazy," Mexico ventured, grimacing awkwardly.

Then, with a loud huff, Cuba threw himself back down into his seat. "Whatever. America can go fuck himself for all I-"

"Cuba, for the love of God, _shut up_," England cut in sharply, shooting the Cuban an irritated glare to finally silence him.

"I agree he can be an idiot, but that was just taking it too far, non?" France added soberly.

A handful of other nations spoke up in agreement, but not nearly as many as Matthew would have liked. It seemed Alfred's support system was severely lacking.

"Should… Should someone go after him?" North Italy wondered aloud, looking towards Germany.

It was England who responded, eyes still trained on the door the American had left through. "No, I think its best we left him alone for now. Besides," he sighed, "the day's almost done. There's barely ten minutes left… he won't miss too much."

Germany nodded. "Yes, well," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I suppose we should, uh, continue where we left off?" It was more of a question than an assertion, but no one dared to object.

At least not out loud.

Matthew stood silently, watching the rest of the room's nations as the conversation cautiously began to pick back up.

England's words still rang true. There were only a couple of minutes left in the meeting, and it wasn't like he was going miss out on anything important anyway. It wasn't like anyone would notice him leaving.

And so it was decided.

Matthew stood slowly, making his way across the room without objection, eyes locked on to the exit.

He was going to find his brother.

Wandering out into the halls surrounding the conference room, Matthew once again began his search for the elusive American, a sensation which was already all-too-familiar from yesterday's spectacle.

_He wouldn't go to the break room at a time like this, _he reasoned with himself. _Not when everyone is going to be heading there in a couple of minutes anyway. _Matthew thought back to the previous day, wondering if his brother had gone off in the same direction as then. _Makes sense, _he thought. _He'd want to get as far away from the rest of us as he could. In fact… _He was suddenly struck with a concerning thought, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

_What if he's already left?_

He pivoted on his heel, heading back the way he had came and towards the building's front entrance, hoping he would be able to catch his brother in the parking lot. He jogged back up the main hall and towards the conference room door, making a sharp turn down an adjoining hall to the right-

-and came to a complete stop, breath catching in his throat.

Less than forty paces away, his brother stormed down hall purposefully, the distance between them quickly growing as he moved further and further away, completely unaware of the concerned Canadian watching him from behind.

Matthew took a hesitant step forwards, mustering up what little courage he had to call out to his brother and praying his soft voice would even be enough to get the American's attention. He raised a hand, Alfred's name on the tip of his tongue.

As if orchestrated by a higher power, Alfred came to a complete stop.

Matthew hesitated at the sudden and highly unexpected halt of movement. He froze with a hand still outstretched before him, wondering what had caused Alfred to stop.

Alfred just continued to stand, fuming silently in the middle of the hall, unaware of the northern nation's presence. Then, in one painfully slow movement, he turned his head just a fraction to the left. Almost without thinking, Matthew took a swift step back around the corner he had just rounded, pausing when he was half hidden behind the wall. But Alfred didn't seem to notice. In fact, he wasn't even looking in Matthew's direction.

He was looking at the wall.

He was looking at the large, decorative mirror which hung from it.

He was looking at his reflection.

Matthew's bright violet eyes grew wide, lips parting just slightly as he watched the way he brother stared at himself in the mirror. He found himself captivated by the scene, unable to look away as something he had heard not too long ago began to resurface in his mind.

Something he had heard last night, from a certain polar bear.

"_Two."_

Matthew stared on as Alfred took a slow step towards the shinning, reflective surface. Then another. And another.

Finally, he paused, standing just inches away from the mirror.

From where Matthew stood Alfred's face was only visible in the reflection. For a long moment he did nothing more than stare at himself, expression eventually softening and looking almost thoughtful. Then, slowly, he raised both hands until he was pressing his palms flat, fingers splayed, against the reflective metal. His icy blue eyes narrowed as he watched the reflection do the same.

_No, _Matthew thought. _Not the reflection…_

_Two._

"Not the reflection," Matthew mumbled under his breath. "The other Alfred."

_The second Alfred._

Matthew's head titled thoughtfully to the side, eyes still trained on his brother, feeling mesmerized. He couldn't be sure – as he was standing fairly far away – but it almost looked like Alfred was _talking _to himself over there. He frowned, straining to hear what might be being said. The closer he listened, the more evident it became – a very soft, very quiet mumble drifting over from where he stood.

Alfred's scowl only deepened as he continued to talk to himself, lips curling up into an angry grimace and voice rising just slightly in anger.

This only served to make Matthew more confused than ever.

_What the fuck is he _**doing**_ over there?_

Just then, a loud bang could be heard echoing up the hall – the tell-tale sound of the conference room door being slammed open.

The sudden noise startled Matthew from his thoughts, snapping him from his temporary trance and nearly causing him to jump a foot in the air. He swivelled around, glancing down the hall to see a cluster of nations already pooling out from the conference room doors.

"Damnit," he breathed, glancing back around the corner he was hiding behind just in time to see Alfred's head snapping up.

The American frowned as the sound of the approaching nations reached his ears, only just seeming to come out of a daze of his own.

Alfred looked back towards the mirror for just a moment, hands still pressed against it, and glowered at himself with distaste. With a huff, he pushed off from the wall, stepping away and shaking his hands down to his sides in a hateful, almost disgusted looking manner. He turned away, shooting one last glare at the reflection before moving quickly down the hall, around another corner and out of sight.

Matthew – still somewhat in shock from everything that had just happened – continued to stand with a hand against the wall as he stared at the empty space where his brother had been moments ago.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

_What am I thinking? The 'other' Alfred? That's impossible. _

He tried to banish the thought, to forget about everything he had just seen.

_So Al talked to himself in a mirror. Fine, big deal. That doesn't mean anything._

But that strange, anxious feeling was back – suddenly more evident than ever – weighing down inside him, twisting his gut around nervously.

And it was telling him that he was wrong.

"_Two," _his mind echoed again.

Matthew shook his head again, his free hand moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

All around him, the nations manoeuvred about, completely unaware of the internal battle going on inside the mind of the quiet Canadian just feet away from them.

To his right, the Italy brothers pushed through the crowd, South Italy looking as angry and flustered as ever as he tried to detach himself from his clingy younger brother.

"Get away from me already!"

"_Fratello!_ You can't still be mad about what I said about you and Spain yesterday! I told you I was sorry!" Italy cried, latching onto his brother's shoulders as he struggled to make his way down the same hall Alfred had just left.

Matthew sighed, already beginning to feel the tell-tale aches of a quickly approaching headache.

"I said get off!"

He closed his eyes for a brief moment as he pushed away from the wall.

_Seriously, what the hell am I thinking? That's… That's impossible. There can't be __**two **__of the same nation. There just can't._

Matthew finally opened his eyes, looking up just in time to see South Italy gripping his brother by the arms and swinging him to one side until he was pressed flat against the wall. The older Italian used his momentum to push off and finally detach himself from the other, huffed exasperatedly, his face contorted into an angry mask of… disgust.

Much like the one Alfred had been wearing moments ago when he had performed practically the exact same motion against the mirror.

Matthew's eyes went wide, his own thoughts from just moments ago replaying over and over in his mind, as if taunting him with how wrong they were.

_Of course there can be two representatives for the exact same nation._

He was looking at them right now.


	5. Conversations

**AN: I feel like I should probably say something encouraging and insightful here but I can't think of anything.**

* * *

><p>Matthew cut the engines with a sharp turn of his keys, the small European rental car he was using for the duration of the World Summit falling silent.<p>

The weary Canadian sighed, lifting his glasses to rub at his eyes and relishing in the quiet for a long moment. Finally, sighing in displeasure, he reached over to push the car door open and stepped out none-too-gracefully into the bright, sunny parking lot.

On any other day, he might have stopped to admire the perfect mid-August weather.

He might have even thought it was _nice._

On any other day but today, that is.

Because today the weather positively _mocked _him.

It mocked him and the cold, empty feeling stabbing at his chest every time he thought about his brother. It mocked the sickening, inescapable anxiety rising in his gut, constantly putting him on edge. It mocked the weary, exhausted way he dragged his feet after having slept less than twelve hours out of the last seventy-two.

It had now been three nights in a row that Matthew been unable to sleep peacefully. Three nights in a row that he had tossed and turned restlessly, twisting himself up the sheets. Three nights in a row that he had woken with a start, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding frantically and his brother's name on his lips, being forced to relive that same nightmare over and over again.

And yet here the sun was, as brilliant and dazzling as ever, radiating energy and warmth.

And Matthew _hated _it.

After having continued his… _insightful_ conversation with Kumajiro last night, and undergoing his own personal moment of realization shortly afterwards, everything had just seemed to go downhill – including his mood. Despite his best efforts to try to clear his mind, despite how he tried so hard to tell himself it was crazy and impossible and just plain ridiculous, he couldn't stop thinking... What is Kumajiro was right?

Matthew shook his head, smacking his hands over his eyes and instantly feeling stupid for even having such thoughts. _What am I doing? _he berated himself for what felt like the thousandth time in the past twenty-four hours. _I don't have time to be fretting over some stupid speculation about my brother. I'm totally just being paranoid. _He buried his face even deeper into his hands.

_Yeah,_ paranoid. _That's it._

Finally, he looked up again, focusing hard on nothing in particular in attempt to clear his head. Glancing around, Matthew noticed that other than the other nation's cars, the parking lot around him was completely empty, no straggling nations left behind still making their way in.

_Shit, _he thought. _Just how late am I?_

He had intended to stop by the break room on his way in so that he could grab some coffee, hopefully to wake him up a bit and – if his luck allowed it – help calm his nerves.

He wondered if the others were already inside the conference room or if they were still hanging around the break room or making their way through the halls.

He wondered if America was among them.

Matthew nearly choked at the thought, instantly realizing his mistake. He had just called his brother America, hadn't he? Even if it was only in his mind, the mere thought of referring to Alfred as only 'America' bothered him.

Matthew had always called the nations closest to him by their human names (even if that usually only included Alfred and Francis), knowing it was a sign of friendship and trust. Most nations did the same, only calling those closest to them their given human names, and the rest by their professional titles.

Alfred had always been Alfred to him, but now...

_No,_ Matthew thought resolutely. _No, that's not right._

'America' was what his bosses and his co-workers called him. It was what his acquaintances called him. It was what strangers called him.

_He's not a stranger, _Matthew reminded himself firmly. _He's my brother._

_He __**is **__my brother._

"Isn't he?" Matthew muttered to himself, finally reaching the building's main entrance.

xXx

_Matthew silently stepped into his hotel suite, nudging the door closed behind him with a soft click. He dropped his briefcase on the floor beside him, slipping out of his black dress shoes and shrugging off his jacket before throwing it down over top of the briefcase._

_He slowly made his way down the small hall leading to the small kitchen, leaning against the wall for support and dragging his feet beneath him. __Matthew felt positively _sick, _like the weight of the world was weighing down on him, causing his throat to tighten and his stomach to churn nauseously._

_He just couldn't get that picture of Alfred staring at his reflection like that out of his head._

_At this point – as much as he didn't want to – Matthew knew there was only one thing he could do._

_He rounded the corner into the kitchen, knowing exactly what he would find there._

"_Hey Kuma…" Matthew said shakily as he gently pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, his legs feeling weak beneath his own weight._

_Kumajiro was huddled in the corner of the room by an empty food bowl. He watched his owner with a blank, unreadable expression. And as the Canadian spoke, he made not even a single attempt to show that he had registered his presence._

_Matthew sighed internally, knowing the bear was probably still mad about their conversation from the previous night. Kuma could be quite stubborn when he wanted, and this wasn't the first time he had given Matthew the silent treatment._

"_Are you hungry?" Matthew asked anyway, hoping the mention of food would elicit a response._

_Kumajiro just continued to stare ahead blankly, still upholding his vow of silence._

_Matthew tried again. "Do you want some tuna? There's some fresh tuna in the fridge, you know, if you want…"_

_Nothing._

_Matthew sighed – this time out loud – and looked away, hands fidgeting in his lap nervously._

"_Okay then…" he trailed off, trying to think of something else to say."Do you want to know how my day went?" He asked, hoping the bear would show the same amount of interest as he had the previous night._

_The bear said nothing, but nevertheless, Matthew forced himself up a bit straighter, took a deep breath and forged ahead anyway._

"_Well, I was in a pretty terrible mood today 'cause I didn't get a good sleep last night, but you already knew that; and everyone ignored me again, but you probably suspected that anyway; and, let's see… I, uh, I spoke to A-Alfred again." His voice tightened around the name._

_For the first time since their conversation last night, Kumajiro's head snapped up. He __opened his small mouth, as if about to say something, but appeared to think better of it. He snapped his snout shut quickly, settling instead for shooting the Canadian a heated glare, his tiny eyes narrowed._

_The bear still wasn't speaking, but at least he had actually reacted to those words._

"_What? You're not going to go all 'not Alfred' on me this time?" Matthew challenged._

_Kumajiro continued to glare at him, until finally responding with an accusatory, "Last time you made fun."_

"_I wasn't making fun of you! I didn't-" __Matthew choked back his words, forcing himself to stop speaking._

I'm not going to get anywhere by defending myself right now, _he realized, opting for another approach instead._

"_Okay, look…" he sighed again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad."_

_The apology was simple but honest, and seemed to have the desired effect, as __Kumajiro's angry stare softened to a more curious one, looking surprised._

_Matthew pressed on, lengthening his apology in the hopes that Kumajiro would open up more. _"_I really am sorry. I was just- I mean…" Matthew struggled to find the right words. "I just didn't understand what you were trying to say last night. But I thought about it some more today and… I think I do now."_

_The bear watched him for a long moment, judging his words silently. "Don't really believe me." It wasn't a question._

"_No!" Matthew protested honestly. "It's not that I don't _believe _you…" he trailed off, feeling foolish and guilty despite his words. Foolish for ever even having entertained such an idea – an idea that was implanted by a polar bear no less, and guilty for thinking it about his own brother. _"_It not that I don't believe you," Matthew repeated. "It's just I'm a little _confused_, that's all."_

_Kumajiro raised an eyebrow, as if questioning how it was even possible for someone to confused about something so simple._

"_I just need a little clarification," Matthew elaborated, but __Kumajiro just continued to look at the blonde in a way that made him feel like a complete idiot._

_He took a deep breath. "'Cause let's say - for a moment - that there really were _two Americas," _The words felt foreign on his tongue, but Matthew forced himself to continue. "Okay, sure, but then how come I've only ever seen one?" He paused then, an odd thought suddenly coming to mind. "I mean, I_ have_ only ever seen one, right? It's not like they're, you know, switching back and forth?"_

_Kumajiro shook his head. "Only one," he confirmed._

"_And not the real one, either? Not the real Alfred?"_

_Kumajiro nodded this time."Not Alfred."_

"Ooookay,_" Matthew said slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the whole idea. "So then what ever happened to my real brother? What about the Alfred I grew up with – the Alfred that played with me and taught me English and refused to forget about me even when everyone else had? What happened to _him_?"_

"_Gone."_

_Matthew felt his heart skip a beat, his mind immediately jumping to the worst scenario possible. "G-Gone?" he managed, voice small and trembling._

_Kumajiro rolled his eyes. "Not like that," he said, as if having read his owner's thoughts._

_Matthew blinked, letting the words sink in, and after a moment he let out a low, shaky breath. "Heh, you really shouldn't say things like that, Kuma. People might get the wrong idea."_

_The bear just rolled his eyes again. "Not like that," he continued. "Hidden."_

"_What?" Matthew asked, eyebrows knotting together. "I don't understand. Hiding from what?"_

"_Not hiding. Hidden."_

_xXx_

A couple of minutes later found Matthew carefully making his way through the conference building's halls. The meeting was set to start, but thankfully there were still a good number of stragglers hanging around in the halls outside the meeting room, meaning Matthew wasn't going to be as late as he thought.

The blonde was able to slip by the majority of the others completely unnoticed, quietly sipping his coffee from a Styrofoam cup he had gotten from the break room on his way in. He hummed to himself as he went along, feeling the creamy liquid warming him from the inside out.

He could already feel the caffeine seeping into his system, alerting his sense to the point that for the first time in three days he actually felt fully awake, but so far it had done little to nothing to calm his erratic nerves or the nausea plaguing his stomach.

If anything, it might have even been making it worse. Because as Matthew walked on, silently sipping his drink, the more clear-headed he felt and the more he began to think.

To think about last night.

Which, in itself, only served to make him feel even worse than before.

He knew he should be worried about his own problems right now, like his government and his economy. As a nation, he really didn't have time to spare fretting over what kind of crazy speculations he had about his brother, and yet...

Matthew shook his head sharply, willing the thoughts out of his mind. With shaking hands, he took another slow sip from his coffee, eyes studying the floor as he moved along.

The more he started to think about it, the more it started to make sense.

xXx

"I said _get out. _Go home. Leave."

"Al…"

"_Now, _Matthew."

Matthew couldn't move, completely frozen by fear and indecision.

"I said _get the fuck out!_"

Matthew's entire body lurched forwards, the movement jolting him from his sleep as he gasped sharply. On instinct he bolted forwards, feeling the mattress shift beneath him, blankets falling from a bare torso at the sudden movement and leaving in exposed to the night's cool air.

The world around him began to wane, vivid and terrifying flashes of his brother standing hunched in a dark hall slowly fading from Matthew's vision. Soon aware of where he was, he began trying to calm his panicked heartbeat.

"Just a dream," he gasped between ragged breaths, hands fisting into the sheets at his sides. "It's just a dream."

_That same goddamned fucking dream._

Hands unsteady, Matthew reached across to the nightstand, flickering on the bedside lamp. He watched the room illuminate, waiting for a moment to let his eyes adjust before ripping the covers all the way off and pushing himself up.

As he stumbled his way towards the restroom, a small voice spoke up behind him from the foot of the bed.

"Bad dream?"

"Bad dream," Matthew confirmed without looking back, hands sliding along the wall as he staggered down the small hallway.

"Same one?"

"Same one," he said.

Still shaken from the images plaguing his mind, Matthew pushed the door open blindly, finding his way to the toilet out of nothing more than pure luck. He lifted the lid just in time and collapsed before it, stomach already heaving up what little food he had managed to stomach for dinner the night before.

Three or four horribly unpleasant minutes pass before Matthew deemed himself able to sit back, and two more before he was able to stand again.

It was only when he was leaning against the counter, rinsing out the foul taste in his mouth that Matthew realized he was still shaking, and when he raised his head to see his blurred reflection, he could immediately tell that no one should ever be _that _pale.

_"_Just a dream," he repeated to himself, like a mantra of sorts.

A dream that was yet again able to reduce him to a sweating, shivering mess.

Matthew hung his head, vision blurring over again, only this time not because of his poor eyesight but because of the hot, salty tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

He was ashamed. Ashamed of childish and foolish he must have looked right now. Ashamed of badly he could be affected by a _dream_.

Even if it had once been real, now it was nothing more than his imagination reliving the same thing over and over again. It wasn't anything new, it wasn't anything exciting, it wasn't even _scary_!

And yet it _terrified _him.

To know it was once real, to know it really had happened, to know that Alfred had really said such things…

It terrified Matthew to see his brother act like that, to hear him say those things... to be forced to relive it over and over again.

"_People die, Matthew."_

It was just so wrong, hearing him say those things… things that sounded so unlike Alfred.

"_It happens."_

Things that sounded so not like Alfred.

"_You know as well as I do that that's what it takes to win."_

Not like Alfred.

"_So stop acting like such a _child _and get over it."_

Not Alfred.

"Oh my god."

Matthew lifted his head slowly, breaths slowing and coming in raggedly as he watched his blurred reflection's watery eyes widened in shocked realization.

His knees felt weak beneath him as he pushed away, staggering back towards the door.

"No…"

But it made sense didn't it?

"No fucking way."

What had been going on in America at the time of Matthew's visit? What was it that Matthew had originally thought was causing 'Alfred' to seem to high-strung? What topic had caused 'Alfred' to react so badly at the meeting yesterday and at every other time it was ever brought up? What was the only historical point in time during which the possibility of there being more than one America ever even existed?

The America Civil War.

_Of course _it was the American Civil War.

"It can't- That can't be... He- He would have said something. I would have known. _Somebody _would have known! There's no way..."

But it made sense.

It all made sense.

That hadn't been Alfred.

That hadn't been the United States of America at all.

And maybe it still wasn't.

xXx

Sometimes, being constantly overlooked had its advantages too.

_Like now, for example._

The shaken Canadian sat alone in the back corner of the break room between the discussions, his shoulders tight and hunched forwards, his fingers drumming restlessly on the sides of what must have already been his fifth cup of coffee. All around him, the other nations bustled about, taking the much needed time off to talk amongst themselves, or grab something to eat. Most were in groups of two or three, with the occasional nation sitting alone and keeping to themselves, but not a single one paid any mind to Matthew, or the internal mental breakdown he was currently suffering from.

Matthew knew he was over-stressing this whole thing, thinking about it _way _too much – and by extent, only making it harder on himself. But what the hell else was there for him to do? It wasn't like he could confront the would-be-Alfred about any of this. He still didn't even know the man's motives or goals or – to be completely honest – if he even _was _an imposter at all.

For all the hard standing evidence Matthew actually had, it still easily could have very well been the one and only Alfred F Jones munching away on takeout burgers at a table across the room.

It was an extremely low chance... but it was still perfectly _possible_.

Still, so far through all his fretting and fussing and worrying and thinking and thinking and _thinking_, the only considerable next step of action Matthew had been able to come up with was simply talking to the only two people he knew for certain had actually undergone a nation's split before.

The Vargas brothers.

As strange as it may have sounded, the two feeble Italians were the only ones Matthew thought might potentially have any of the answers he was looking for. Matthew frowned thoughtfully, fingers still drumming away against the sides of his cup. _If, at this point, I was going to talk to anyone… it would have to be those two._

The keyword there being 'if'.

'_Cause, honestly, what would I even say? How would I begin? I mean, it's not really the type of conversation you can just strike up for no particular reason without pretty much sounding insane._

Matthew's frown deepened as more ideas began to form in his mind.

_Not to mention, if I start asking around it might arouse suspicion from everyone else too. I don't know how other people would react to something like this. As a whole, it's probably just best to keep it to myself. __On the other hand, no one really remembers me or anything I do for that matter, so the Vargas brothers would probably completely forget about our conversation afterwards… __Then again, even if they forgot, other people might not. If anyone were to overhear our conversation things could really get out of hand._

And so, using his rational Canadian peacekeeper's persuading skills, Matthew sat, internally debating back and forth on whether or not he should approach the two Italians. The internal battle continued for a few minutes, the idea slowly becoming less and less appealing as Matthew began to lose his nerve, eventually giving over to one side.

_Besides, wherever North Italy goes, Germany's sure to follow, and he's kind of scary. Plus, South Italy wouldn't be caught dead and around Germany, so he's probably with Spain right now anyway._

Matthew finally looked back up, his decision having been made. As much of a coward as he may have felt like, he knew it just wasn't going to happen today.

Only then, as if the heavens themselves were set out to prove him wrong, Matthew's eyes latched on to the very sight he had just convinced himself he wasn't going to see.

"Fratello, I'm so glad you decided to forgive me! I mean, I know you said you still hated me but that's okay because I know you don't mean it and now we can hang out together just like we use to. Don't you remember when we were really little and we always use to hang out together? We were like best friends back then! Isn't that funny?"

"Hilarious."

The Italy brothers.

Sitting together.

At an empty table.

With no one else around.

No Germany. No Spain. Just them.

And as if that wasn't enough, a flicker of movement from across the room caught his eye once again.

The would-be-Alfred stood up, gathering his burger wrappings and brushing off the last bits of crumbs still clinging to his jacket. Crumpling up the paper, he tossed it into a nearby garbage can before pushing in his chair and making his way towards the door.

Making his way out of the room.

Making his way out of earshot.

Matthew gaped.

And just like that, there it was, the perfect opportunity.

_Come on…_

It was practically staring him in the face, like a golden walkway being laid out before him.

_Come on, Matthew…_

It wasn't anything to freak out over.

_You can do it…_

It was just a little chat.

_Get up…_

Just a couple of questions, that's all.

_Get up…_

And it was now or never.

_GET UP!_

With a deep breath, bracing his arms against the side of the table, he stood. That movement alone took more will power than the small Canadian had even thought possible, and almost instantly upon standing, his stomach began to churn painfully. Swallowing thickly, he pushed the sour feeling down. There was no turning back now, he knew.

Leaving his now cold cup of coffee on the table behind him, Matthew took a small step in the direction of the Vargas brothers' table. Then another. And another. Before he knew it he was halfway across the room. Palms sweating and nausea rising, Matthew quickened his pace just a bit, already eager to get the whole thing over with.

That was, at least, until he actually got over to where the two brothers were sitting, at which point he completely froze up.

Matthew stood, frozen in place with both Italians just a mere three feet away. They were both far too engrossed in their own conversation together to even look up, much less notice the trembling Canadian standing before them, and Matthew found himself at a loss of words.

He raised a hand tentatively, opening and closing his mouth uselessly for a moment or two before finally summoning up what little courage he had and stammering out in a weak voice, "Um, e-excuse me?"

Neither brother even so much as looked up.

Matthew took a deep breath, steeling himself for a second try. "Excuse me?" he repeated, voice rising ever-so-slightly in volume.

North Italy paused mid-sentence, head turning in the direction of Matthew's voice and blinking in surprise when he saw someone was actually standing there.

"Oh, ciao! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there!" he laughed light-heartedly, while his older brother just glared, looking irritated at the sudden appearance.

"Oh, no, it's no trouble, really," Matthew waved the apology off quickly. "I- uh, I was just wondering if, um, if maybe I could talk to you two for a moment…?"

"Isn't that what you're already doing right now?" South Italy interjected, looking unimpressed.

"Be nice!" His Northern half frowned, giving his brother a small poke in the side which only ended up earning him a harsh smack.

"W-Well, yes, but I actually had a couple of questions I wanted to ask you… If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he finished hurriedly, still not quite meeting either one of the Italian's gazes.

"Us? Really?" North Italy's entire face lit up at the prospect. "I love talking to new nations! They're always so friendly!" He offered Matthew the seat across from him with a flamboyant wave of his arms. "Sit down here!"

"Oh, I'm not new," Matthew explained, sliding stiffly into the offered seat. "I'm actually-"

"You're America's brother, aren't you?" South Italy said suddenly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, scrutinizing.

Matthew paused, blinking in surprise.

South Italy knew who he was?

_South Italy _knew who _he _was?

"You're that guy who came up to me during the break yesterday, right? You wanted to know where your idiot of a brother went off to or something." It was barely a question. South Italy actually seemed to _recognize _him.

Matthew blinked again, snapping himself out of his momentary shock. "Y-Yes, I did. Yes, that was me."

"Oh! You two are already friends? That's great!" North Italy beamed, clasping his hands together.

South Italy snorted. "Hardly."

"Oh," he sounded slightly disappointed this time, hands falling back to his sides limply. "But still, I didn't know America had a brother. That must be so exciting!"

"And awful."

North Italy poked his brother again, obviously displeased with his attitude. Then, putting that contagious smile of his back on his face, he turned to face Matthew once again.

"So, uh…"

"Canada." Matthew offered, having had enough experience to know that when people trailed off halfway through speaking to him it was usually because they had forgotten his name, or, in this case, had never known it in the first place.

"Right, Canada! So, what was it you wanted to talk to us about again?"

And here came the hard part: figuring out how to word his questions without sounding completely insane. Matthew took a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing._

"I was actually wondering if you two would… Well, if you could tell me about… Or if you ever remembered-"

South Italy rolled his eyes. "Spit it out already," he chided.

Matthew paused, taking another deep breath in through his nose and willing the right words to come out this time.

"I was just wondering… Was there ever a time when the two of you were… one?" he finished lamely.

Both brothers paused, giving him equally odd looks.

"Define _one,_" South Italy said slowly.

"You know, like…" Matthew struggled to find the right words to explain. "Was there was ever maybe a time when there weren't _two _Italies? I mean, were you always this way? Or… Or was there a specific point in time when you became, I guess, _united_?" The words tasted wrong in his mouth, but Matthew pressed on nonetheless, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants under the table where the others couldn't see.

There was an even longer pause this time, as both Italians studied him oddly.

"Well, yeah, I guess," South Italy spoke at last. "I mean, I don't _really _remember it all that much. It was a really long time ago. We weren't actually _countries _yet, per-say. Just a bunch of stupid little kingdoms, fighting over territory all the time."

"And then?" Matthew pressed.

South Italy glanced momentarily at his brother, before giving a small shrug. "And then we became Italy."

"But why are there still two personifications for one country? Why didn't you two, I don't know, fuse together?" he finished lamely.

"Oh, I know this one!" North Italy clasped his hands together again. "It's because the two parts of our country are so different. Even now, northern Italians are really energized and active people and the southerners don't do much and work at a much slower pace than us 'cause they're really lazy."

Another hard smack upside the head from South Italy followed this statement.

"Hey!" North Italy complained, nursing his head between his hands.

South Italy just rolled his eyes in exasperation again. "It's because the northern and southern parts are very different from each other. Especially in culture, but also in climate, terrain and yes, work habits. We're different enough that some might even say we could be 'two separate countries'," he spat the words like a curse.

Matthew nodded slowly, a much bigger picture slowly coming together in his mind. He had wanted not to believe it, had hoped the Italy brothers would have been able to lay his suspicions to rest, but they only seemed to be backing them up further.

Matthew could feel his heart thudding in his chest, almost painfully.

If all it took was _difference_ for an entire nation to split in two...

"Do you think it could ever happen to another country?" he asked cautiously, eyes flickering between the two brothers.

"Seriously, why do you _care _anyway?" South Italy snapped suddenly, looking bored.

Matthew froze, wracking his brain for a moment in panic, trying to come up with a suitable response. "Oh, well, you know what they say, eh? Knowledge is power…?" he offered weakly.

North Italy nodded eagerly in agreement while South Italy raised an eyebrow dubiously, then, still looking somewhat skeptical, the older brother addressed Matthew's original question. "Like I said, if there were a big enough difference between two mahor parts of the country, like in Italy, then I don't see why not."

"What about... Do you think a civil war would be able to cause a big enough difference?" Matthew asked slowly. "A civil war, for example, between the _North and the South_?"

On queue, the break room's main doors flew open, crashing into the wall with a loud bang as a familiar voice floated through the air.

"No need to panic, everyone! The Hero is here to save the day!"

This statement was met with a general grumble from the few nations still lingering around the break room, a couple of whom were rolling their eyes or muttering under their breath.

Matthew, however, was a completely different story. Sitting with his back to the door, and thus unable to see the American, the blonde went completely rigid, eyes flying open and staring straight ahead, his heart feeling like it was jumping into his throat.

Both Italians, having caught his frightened reaction, glanced questioningly between Matthew and the boisterous American behind him.

Matthew licked his lips nervously, suddenly noticing for the first time how dry his mouth felt.

Then, as if only to make matters worse, North Italy – who seemed completely oblivious to the near panic radiating off of the Canadian before him – exclaimed happily, "Whoa! Canada, that's really clever! I had never thought of that before!"

Matthew nearly choked, shooting the Italian a desperate look that begged him to shut up.

_Does he have to be so __**loud**__?_

"Wait a minute…" South Italy spoke up suddenly, narrowed eyes regarding the Canadian oddly. "You're not talking about _him_, are you?"

Before he could even try to form a response, Alfred's loud voice cut in once again. 'I hope nobody's done anything _bad _while I was away." It was said to be in a light-hearted manner, yet somehow Matthew felt it also contained a dangerous edge to it.

Clamping down in his lip in painful anxiety, Matthew ducked his head, as if shielding himself from the words behind a curtain of golden bangs.

But South Italy wouldn't have it. The older Italian pressed on, in a voice that was far too loud for anything near Matthew's comfort zone. "You don't seriously think that _that _bastard-"

Matthew peaked up, shooting the other a desperate, pleading look and shaking his head no.

South Italy, thankfully, paused.

Until America spoke from behind him once again, voice sounding much closer and only addressing them this time. "You guys aren't bullying my baby bro over there, are you?" he laughed jokingly, but Matthew could have _sworn_ there was still underlying tone of threat in his words.

He could also sense that America was moving closer towards them. Towards him.

Pretending he hadn't heard that last remark, Matthew sat up just a bit straighter. He needed to get out of there _now. _On impulse, he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Ah, y-yes, as I was saying, the, uh, the first shipment of… of m-maple syrup should arrive any day now," he spewed hurriedly.

Matthew could barely retain a sigh of relief when the approaching footsteps behind him slowed.

Meanwhile, South Italy was just looking at him like he was insane. "What the fuck are you t-"

North Italy blinked once, as if only just now catching up with the conversation taking place before him. Then with an excited gasp, he exclaimed, "Ah, that sounds _wonderful_, Canada! What a great idea!"

Matthew, for the first time in his life, was extremely thankful for the younger man's innocent oblivion. "Yes, wonderful," he chimed, playing it up.

He knew he probably looked positively insane to South Italy – who was still sitting there with his hands in the air, looking confused as hell – but Matthew didn't care as long as it was enough to convince America they hadn't been talking about him.

"You know," North Italy continued with a dreamy smile on his face. "I've always loved maple syrup. It's like the Canadian version of pasta sauce… only it's completely different."

Matthew nodded along furiously in agreement with the statement, even though it didn't actually make any sense. "Yes, well, um, I'll just go over it with my boss when I get back and, um, yes." He stood, almost tripping over his chair's legs as he backed away. "Okay, it's was nice chatting with you two. Glad we could do business!"

He turned quickly, blinking in surprise as if just noticing for the first time that the American was there. "Oh! Hey, Al," the name tasted sour in his mouth, knowing now for certain who he was really speaking to, but he forced himself not to show it. "I didn't see you there," he lied.

America did not look amused. His piercing blue eyes flickered between Matthew and the two Italians in a suspicious manner. He opened his mouth as if to ask what they had been talking about before Matthew quickly cut in.

"Ah, look at the time!" The flustered Canadian made a show of checking his watch. "I'd better be heading back now. Don't want to be late for the next round of discussions." He laughed weakly, already ducking around the American and making for the door.

xXx

Lovino Vargas had officially been creeped the fuck out.

First of all, his long awaited break from that overcrowded room of idiots where everyone talked over one another and nothing ever got done had been completely ruined by that trembling, stuttering bastard and his _damn questions_.

Secondly, just when he thought he was starting to understand what the kid was getting at, he up and starts spouting shit about _maple fucking syrup _and acting like the entire conversation had never even happened.

Thirdly, his damn brother – with his spaced-out gaze and his everlasting oblivion – had somehow actually seemed to understand the sudden jump from civil wars to maple syrup better than even he had.

And now here he was – stuck between an idiot and an American idiot – watching on in complete and total confusion as the trembling Canadian stumbled his way across the room and out the door, eyes wide and shinning with fear.

If Lovino didn't know any better, he would say the kid was running away from his own _brother_.

At the same time, the American stood perfectly still, eyes boring into the back of Canada's head as he watched him all the way out the door. Then, finally, he turned.

America regarded him curiously, his lips pressed into a tight, thoughtful line. He looked like he was about to say something when Italy suddenly spoke up.

"Isn't maple syrups great?" Feliciano said dreamily.

America opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. He gave the two Italian's one more hard look before slowly turning away once again. Without another word, he began walking, quickly disappearing behind the door and out of sight.

There was a long moment of silence in which Lovino, stunned as he was from the sudden change of atmosphere, could do little more than sit there, staring ahead stupidly.

Despite everything that had just happened, one single thought continued to resound within his mind.

"_Do you think a civil war would be able to cause a big enough difference? A civil war, for example, between the __**North and the South**__?"_

North and South.

Two Americas.

North and South.

_Well_, _I guess it is a pretty clever idea, _Lovino thought, despite himself.

And possible. Very, very possible. So possible, in fact, that Lovino wondered why he had never thought of it before.

He stood, pushing himself off of his chair with a new-found determination. "Come on, Feli," he said. "Let's head back."

Lovino Vargas had officially been creeped the fuck out.

And more than a little intrigued.


	6. Blood

**AN: The fun continues (not really)**

* * *

><p>"Damnit, Feliciano!" Lovino growled, dragging his brother through the long, complex series of halls within the conference building. "Now we're going to be late and your stupid fucking boyfriend isn't ever going to shut up about it!"<p>

The younger Italian whined as he was steered along. "It's not like it's _my _fault."

"Yes it is! _You're _the one who just had to make pasta for breakfast and _you're _made us late because of it, so now _you're _going to take responsibility for it!"

Feliciano pouted, but didn't argue back, knowing it would only serve to anger his brother even more. Besides, he would just apologize to Ludwig for being late once they got there and promise to never ever do it again and then everything would be okay. Ludwig could never stay mad at him for too long. Smiling dreamily at the thought, Feliciano allowed himself to be lead along the rest of the way through the maze of halls.

As soon as the entrance to the meeting hall was in sight, Lovino relinquished the tight grip he had on his brother's wrist, wiping his hands across his front as if to rid himself of the sensation of Feliciano's skin on his. "Come on!" he commanded, already turning away and marching down the hall.

Feliciano followed at a safe distance, his mind already elsewhere. It really didn't bother him that his brother was always so hostile. He knew Lovino loved him deep, deep, _deep_ down. He was just bad at showing it. Kind of like how he was with Antonio.

Feliciano's smile widened even further. He had always able to tell whenever those two were together. Despite what Lovino said about how much he hated the Spaniard, Feliciano always felt the heated blush that crept along his brother's face or the way his stomach would flutter whenever they were even so much as in the same room.

"Let's go, asshole!" an angry voice called from further up the hall, shaking Feliciano from his thoughts.

"Ah, sorry!" he called back, quickening his pace to catch up with the other.

The two arrived at the door, both pushing on opposite sides at the same time. As they stepped into the room, Lovino shot the smaller Italian a hateful glare from the corner of his eye, almost as if he could tell what Feliciano had been thinking before.

Which, now that Feliciano thought about it, he probably had.

He just kept on smiling.

They stepped into the meeting hall together, all eyes turning in their direction as the sound of the grand doors opening echoed across the room. At the head of it all sat a certain German, his usually stoic features showing only the slightest signs of irritation at their lack of punctuality.

"_Italien_, you're late," Ludwig said, making a point of addressing only the younger of the two. "Again," he added as an afterthought.

"I know, and I'm _really _sorry," Feliciano rushed to apologize. "I didn't mean to be late, it's just that I wanted pasta this morning and I tried to get up early so I'd have enough time but then my alarm didn't go off and when I finally woke up I realized I didn't want spaghetti anymore like I had the night before and instead I wanted tortellini so I had to run to the store to get all the ingredients and then when I finally got back I found out the stove in our room wasn't working so I had fratello call the front desk for a repair person but the lady there wouldn't send one up because he was being really mean to her so then I had to call down and apologize and ask really nicely if they would please send up a repair person and that's why we were late," he explained hurriedly, all in one breath.

"Hey!" Lovino complained from beside him. "Don't you dare try to blame this on me!" he jabbed a finger in the smaller man's direction.

"Wha…? No, that's not what I-"

"Would the two of you _please_ be quiet?" Ludwig cut in exasperatedly. "It's alright, Italy, no one here is mad at you. We haven't even started yet with so many still missing-"

"Really?" Feliciano asked, cutting the other off without even realizing it. "You haven't started yet? Are you waiting for someone else too?"

"Yeah, Cuba hasn't bothered to shown up yet either," Denmark replied, leaning back in his seat and looking rather bored while attempting to balance a pencil on the bridge of his nose. Norway knocked it off without batting an eye, clearly unamused.

"You wouldn't have happened to have seen him on your way in?" England asked hopefully.

"Hmm," Feliciano paused, considering the possibility. "No, I don't remember seeing him... What about you, fratello?"

Lovino rolled his eyes indifferently. "Hell if I know."

Ludwig sighed, "I didn't expect so."

"Neither did I," England added. "In fact, I don't think _anyone _here did. So, if you wouldn't mind, could we _please_ just move on with the bloody meeting already?" he asked impatiently. "Otherwise, we'll be waiting here all day."

"He makes a point," Scotland commented offhandedly. "Cuba probably just left. After what… well, after what happened yesterday, he likely wouldn't be all too thrilled with havin' to come back to the same room, with the same… _people_," he worded cautiously, keeping the statement generic but still seeming unable to resist flickering his eyes in the direction of a certain American, who, all the while, made a point of pretending not to notice.

Ludwig cleared his throat loudly, clearly wanting to change the subject. "Yes, well, if that is the case – and I'm willing to assume it is – then I suppose we may as well move along."

There was a general hum of agreement from the surrounding nations.

"North Italy, South Italy," Ludwig gestured to a several empty chairs scattered about the room, "if you could take your seats now."

Feliciano complied, happy to please, and Lovino tailed after, looking not quite as pleased. It took Feliciano a moment to realize his brother was following him instead of heading to his empty chair. He took his seat, watching quizzically as Lovino claimed the one beside him, where Cuba would have been. He was about to question it, before noticing the way his brother kept shooting looks of vague uncertainty in the direction of his assigned seat.

The one beside America.

In a rare moment of tactfulness, Feliciano chose to remain silent as he took his seat, allowing his brother to do the same.

An expectant silence fell over the table, all eyes turning to Germany. Clearly satisfied with the level of attention he was receiving, the German stood, clearing his throat in preparation for his opening speech.

Feliciano found it funny how Ludwig always had an opening speech prepared for each day of the summit. He always knew exactly what topics he wanted to discuss each day and even had time limits for how long it should take to get through them all. Sometimes when things were going well he would let the nations exceed these limits, just because it was so rare that they could even get through an entire discussion without some sort of fight breaking out.

_Still,_ Feliciano thought with a smile,_ Ludwig was always so organized and punctual and well-prepared_. It was just one of the many things about the German that amazed him.

"-keep having to tell you this…"

His daydreaming was abruptly shattered by a loud, irritated sounding voice.

"Italy! Are you even listening to me?"

He blinked, noticing for the first time that the German he had just been thinking about seemed to be yelling at him.

"Yes?" he asked innocently.

"_Für die Liebe Gottes, Italien_…" Ludwig sighed, shaking his head. "How many times have I told you, _you cannot eat pasta in the meeting hall. _All food is to be eaten in the break room and only water is allowed in the conference room," he recited word for word from the very list of rules he had every nation go over at the start of this month's summit.

"Okay?" Feliciano said perplexedly. "But, Ludwig, I didn't-"

"And if you're _are _so determined to eat in here, the _least _you could do is clean up after yourself." He gestured sharply, indicating to what appeared to be a splatter of deep red pasta sauce staining the beige tiles in the corner of the room.

Feliciano tilted his head in confusion. _That's strange, _he thought. _I don't remember bringing any food in here._

"You can't always expect others to go around cleaning up after you. I'm sure France does not appreciate you leaving such a mess in his conference b-"

"Oi!" Lovino cut in rather harshly, looking ready to spring up at any moment. "Feliciano's trying to tell you he didn't-"

"No, no, it's okay," Feliciano cut in, tugging on his brother's sleeve to keep him seated. "I'm really sorry, Ludwig." He smiled apologetically, hoping to help calm things down before they got out of hand. "I'll go clean it up right away. You don't have to wait for me. I can always look over _fratello_'s notes later." He smiled reassuringly.

Ludwig seemed to ponder this for a moment, but eventually gave in, likely not wanting to hold things up any longer for fear of disrupting the discussion schedule he had so carefully planned. "Very well, go ahead then." He waved a hand dismissively.

Feliciano stood, satisfied with his peace-keeping skills. He pointedly ignored the glare from the irritated Italian beside him.

Feliciano knew his brother was just annoyed that he had given in to what Ludwig wanted so easily, but Feliciano truthfully didn't mind that much. It was just a little splatter anyways. Whoever had spilled it there probably hadn't even noticed, and Feliciano would much rather scrub tiles than watch an entire fight break out over something so silly. The fighting always upset him anyway, and he really wasn't looking forward to any kind of repeat of what had happened yesterday.

Humming contentedly to himself, Feliciano skipped to the exit, slipping into the surrounding halls and making his way to the break room. Once there, he quickly found a wet cloth to help wash up the tiles. With his thoughts solely focused on the task at hand, Feliciano made his way back into the meeting hall in record time, flashing Ludwig a smile as he snuck back in through the door, taking care not to disturb the opening statements being made.

Feliciano tiptoed around the back of the table, and as he neared his vacant seat, the mess on the floor came into sight. Coming to stand directly in front of the splatter, he crouched down on all fours and lifted the hand holding the dampened cloth.

His hand froze just inches above the ground, as Feliciano finally got his first good look at the mess up close. He frowned uncertainly as he studied the red stain beneath him.

If anyone knew what pasta sauce looked like, it was Feliciano. But that…

_That doesn't look like any pasta sauce I've ever seen._

Feliciano sat back, legs folded beneath him and hands falling limply onto his lap.

No… No, that definitely was _not _pasta sauce. And now that he could get a good look, Feliciano was somewhat dismayed to find that it wasn't just a little splatter either. There was actually a small streak of crusted red dried up against the wall a couple of feet to his left. And a small wooden table in the corner of the room had barely visible lines of red running down its front legs, as well as some smeared out across the top.

Feliciano was completely frozen now, staring openly at the smears and splatters before him. Something was definitely out of place here. This wasn't pasta sauce. If Feliciano didn't know any better, he'd say it looked an awful lot like…

_That can't be good._

Feliciano began to turn around, trying to figure out how to get Germany's attention and just what exactly he was going to tell him.

"- start things off with the Caribbean nations, as per usual. Now, seeing as Cuba is not present today, Haiti will begin instead..."

Italy froze, lips parted uncertainly as Ludwig's words sunk it.

Cuba.

Wide brown eyes flickered from the smears on the ground to the nations seated behind him and back to the ground again as a series of frightening thoughts began to connect in his mind. He knew that only the _nations_ were allowed in this room. No one else had been in here since the start of the summit, not even the cleaning staff. So then the blood _had_ to belong to one of the nations... didn't it?

But it certainly didn't look like anyone here had suffered any recent injury... meaning if a nation was hurt, it would have be someone who wasn't here.

_And Cuba isn't here._

Feliciano looked down, studying the rag in his hands, his mind still racing, while he breathing turned into short, irregular puffs. Something bad had definitely happened here and he needed to tell someone. Sitting back on his heels, Feliciano twisted fully around to face the room of nations once again.

And his breath caught in his throat.

He whipped back around, shoulders tense and jaw clenched tightly, trying to pretend he hadn't seen anything.

Hadn't seen America watching him.

Breathing heavily, Feliciano tried to calm his racing heart.

_That's... that's pretty creepy,_ he admitted silently, staring at the blood in front of him as memories from the meeting from two days ago suddenly came flooding back to him.

Feliciano would have had to have been blind to have not seen the major conflict that had erupted between Cuba and America. And now, with one of them missing and possibly injured and the other staring him down like a hunter stalking its prey, Feliciano's mind was starting to draw up some very concerning conclusions.

He wasn't stupid, and he didn't think America was either.

Something really bad had happened here – that much was painstakingly obvious.

And America didn't seem to like that.

Still kneeling in the same position, Feliciano gulped nervously. Despite the fact that he could feel the weight of those icy blue eyes as they bore into him like a physical presence, Feliciano knew couldn't just sit here all meeting, hoping someone would come and save him. Fidgeting uncomfortably with the cloth in his hands, he came to a quick decision.

_I'll just clean this up like any other mess and pretend I never noticed anything in the first place._

Maybe later if he got the chance he would talk to Ludwig.

_In private, _he mentally emphasized.

Ignoring his churning stomach, Feliciano quickly mopped up the blood, trying to not let any get on his clothes. Holding the cloth distastefully in his hands, he surveyed the surrounding area, once again noting the various spots of red marring the scene. After a brief moment of deliberation, Feliciano decided to scrub those clean as well.

He could feel America's eyes following his every move.

As he finally washed the last spot, Feliciano could hear the latest speaker finishing up. He waited until the final words were spoken before taking a quick breath and standing up. Plastering a brilliant smile on his face, he turned around and faced the room of nations.

"Okay, it's all cleaned up!" he announced in what he hoped was a good imitation his usual cheery voice.

"Yes, wonderful," Ludwig said, unimpressed. "Now please take your seat. No more interruptions."

Feliciano cast a quick glance in the direction of his empty seat, then down at his red stained hands. "Um, okay..." He hesitated a moment before adding, "But first I'm just going to go wash up, okay?"

"Make it quick."

"Okie-dokie!" Feliciano called over his shoulder, already well on his way out the door.

Once in the hall, he tossed the stained cloth into the nearest trash bin he could find, eager to rid himself of the blood-soaked material. Then he practically ran to the washroom.

Slamming the door open, Feliciano nearly crashed into the sink in his haste. After quickly steadying himself against the counter-top, he reached for the tap and gave it a sharp turn, watching as a steady stream of hot water began to surge out. He plunged his hands beneath the stream, watching as the scalding water began to turn his skin a painful pinkish shade almost instantly.

Feliciano sighed, reducing the temperature by a degree and slowly reaching for a nearby soap-dispenser mounted on the wall next to the mirror. As he began the vigorous scrubbing of his stained hands, he took a moment to try to calm his still racing heart, telling himself that he was probably just blowing everything out of proportion, just like he always did.

_Really, _he chastised himself silently. _I'm probably just imagining things. For all I know, someone could have just gotten a paper cut._

_A really, really bad paper cut..._

He shook his head, re-focusing his thoughts.

_As soon as I'm done here, everything will go back to normal. In no time I'll be back to eating my pasta and waving my white flag and fratello will be calling me names and Ludwig will be blushing and yelling at me just like he always-_

The washroom doors slammed open once again, the sound echoing off the empty tile walls and successfully interrupting Feliciano's chain of thoughts. He glanced up, eyes locking onto the reflection behind him in the corner of the mirror.

Instantly, he froze, his heart dropping into his stomach.

The room seemed to shrink in size, its atmosphere growing heavy and constricting as the western superpower waltzed in, arms crossed and lips quirked upwards in a smirk.

Feliciano stared, wide eyed and completely frozen to the spot, unable to tear his gaze away from the reflection of the larger nation behind him. The American just continued to smile, as though pretending not to sense the obvious waves of fear rolling off the other.

Finally regaining some sense of himself, Feliciano managed to drag his eyes back down to his hands, which were still being held beneath the flow of hot water. He continued to scrub in a stiff robotic-like fashion, shoulders tense and all senses on high alert. He tried to calm his racing heart, hoping against hope that the American would soon enter a stall.

But of course, his silent prayer was left unanswered. America just continued to stand there, disturbingly calm and seemingly without purpose, watching Feliciano's every move with that same unnerving smirk.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Feliciano had had enough. Without warning, he tore his hands out of the stream of water, giving them a quick wipe on the thighs of his pants and hastily shutting off the tap before turning around to face the door and, unfortunately, America.

With his head low and his eyes trained resolutely on the floor, Feliciano ducked past America and made for the exit. Taking small quick steps, he flew through the door and out into the surrounding hall. He glanced around, panic building as he suddenly began to have doubts about which way to go.

Although he knew that it was irrational, as this had to be at least the seventeenth World Summit hosted in this very building; Feliciano couldn't help but think that if he accidentally went the wrong way, America might be able to corner him off in some remote, empty hall on the other side of the building-

Behind him, the restroom doors swung open.

Without so much as a pause, Feliciano took off down the hall, head ducked low and arms swinging at his sides, trying to help him move faster. Although there was no audible sign of any sort of chase being given, he didn't even think about stopping until the large doors into the meeting room where within arm's reach.

Feliciano latched onto the large brass knob in a fumble, immediately thrusting his shoulder against the wood in attempt to open it. His wet hands slipped on the cold metal and all he managed to accomplish was to crash ungracefully into on the unyielding door.

Letting out a small whimper of pain, he took a quick step back and firmly grabbed the handle with two hands. Breathing heavily, he pushed forward once more and finally managed shove the door open. Refusing to look behind him, he rushed into the conference hall, slamming the doors behind him and pressing his back up against the wooden surface. He took a deep, shuddering breath, allowing his heart to calm slightly, before looking up to face the room.

He was greeted with faces displaying various levels of perplexity, all turned towards him, likely startled by the ridiculous amount of noise he must have made while attempting to actually enter the room.

"I'm back," he stated weakly, offering a feeble smile in apology for his not-so-subtle entrance. He quietly began to slip around the back of the table.

"Welcome back," Ludwig said dryly. "Now if you would_ please_ take your seat, we may actually be able to get through this without any further interruptions."

Feliciano simply nodded, quickly finding his way back to his brother and slowly lowering himself in to the empty chair beside him.

Sparing him one last puzzled look, Ludwig began to speak again, thankfully recollecting the majority of the room's attention.

All except for one rather displeased looking Italian, who continued to glare at Feliciano with a look that demanded an explanation. Feliciano did his best to ignore his brother's obvious stare, but Lovino would not be put off, and after a moment it seemed he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Feliciano," he whispered harshly, causing the other to cringe. The _last _thing he wanted right now was more attention being drawn to him.

"...Si?" he whispered back hesitantly.

Lovino gave him a hard look. "What. The. _Fuck?_"

Feliciano stared down at his lap, not entirely sure how to respond. "I... I don't know what y-"

"You know _exactly _what I'm talking about."

Feliciano remained silent, still avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Did you have a fucking _heart attack_ in the bathroom or something?" Lovino demanded, finally deciding to address the problem outright. "Seriously, what the fuck _was _that?"

Feliciano bit down on his tongue, mentally cursing himself for even momentarily having forgotten.

_Whatever I feel, Lovino feels too._

Before Feliciano could even begin think of a suitable reply, the doors the conference room opened once again, and although this entrance was far more subtle and garnered much less attention, Feliciano was immediately hyper-aware of the room's newest member.

America entered calmly, eyes scanning the room lazily and pausing for only a fraction of a second on Feliciano, who quickly averted his own gaze in response.

Beside him, the silent exchange had not gone unnoticed. As the American turned, Lovino raised an eyebrow questioningly, watching him move towards his seat for a second before tracing his gaze back to Feliciano. Then back to America. Then back to Feliciano. Then the corner of the room where the stain use to be. Then back to Feliciano again.

He opened his mouth in question, brow furrowing as the gears turned in his mind, finally putting two and two together. "Did something happen while... Did he-"

Now it was Feliciano turn to interrupt the other. "Not here. Later. Now please stop looking at him," he whispered in their native tongue.

Lovino's expression morphed from confused to somewhat concerned - a rare expression for him. Nevertheless, he complied, giving a small nod before sitting up straight in his chair and reluctantly switching his gaze back to the current speaker.

For the rest of the meeting, Feliciano could not, for the life of him, shake the feeling that he was still being watched.

xXx

Germany stood at the head of the table as he counted up the votes on the ideas he had just pitched in a speech of his own. The rest of the assembly of nations gathered around the conference table were restless and fidgety after the long day and had already began talking among themselves as Germany rushed to organize the votes.

America, oddly enough, was currently one of the few nations still seated quietly and respectfully. While he would have usually already been bouncing around the room, chatting away with England or Canada about the newest video game or super hero model he had bought from Japan, at the moment he didn't quite feel like drawing any more attention to himself than was absolutely needed.

For the majority of the room's occupants, this tactic was working. At first glance, it didn't appear as though any of the room's other occupants were paying him any mind.

But only at first glance.

Even as he sat now, pretending to be shuffling through some of papers on the table before him, America could feel more than one pair of eyes following his movements.

They didn't seem to be contributing to any discussions of their own, as they were probably too preoccupied with trying to watch him as inconspicuously as possible. He found it strange that they had chosen now of all times – when he was sitting down and no longer the center of the room's attention, when they thought he wasn't looking and wouldn't notice – to suddenly start watching him.

He didn't like that.

And so, without warning, America threw his notes down, scattering them across the smooth surface before him as he snapped his gaze upwards, leaning back and drawing his arms up over his head to appear as though he had suddenly decided to start stretching.

From the corner of his eye he saw Russia turn quickly to the smaller Baltic State beside him, striking up a smooth conversation with the other country. On the other end of the table, Canada had averted his eyes with a guilty jolt, gnawing on his lip nervously and looking down instead at his lap, like a child who had been caught doing something he knew was wrong. Meanwhile, seated across from him, both of the Italian brothers reacted similarly, each turning away quickly with a guilty jolt.

So they _had _been watching him...

Alexander _really_ didn't like that.


	7. Convergence

**AN: So in this chapter I decided writing Ivan was a good idea (spoiler: it wasn't). Too bad he's actually really important to this story.  
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* * *

><p>Ivan liked to think that he lived in the moment.<p>

To him, the mistakes of the past had always held little importance when compared to the opportunities held within the present or future. It was with that very thought firmly secured in his mind that Ivan silently decided to put the absolutely pointless World Conference that had just finished behind him.

If there were any condolences to be found in what he had just been forced to suffer through, it was that the five-day long conference was now over. This meant many things to Ivan. It meant he would no longer have to sit through countless hours of the other nations uselessly bickering back and forth. It meant he could now return to the comfort of his home instead of spending his nights in France's pathetic puny country.

But most importantly, it meant he could finally start putting the first steps of his newest plan in to action.

Because in addition to living in the moment, Ivan also liked to prepare for the future.

And that was exactly what he was set out to do.

If there was any single thing that Ivan could possibly say he enjoyed about the nations' seemingly never-ending meetings, it was that it they were always the perfect opportunities to watch people. And Ivan _liked_ to watch people.

In fact, he had made it a hobby of sorts: studying the others, watching them interact together, attempting to read their thoughts and emotions through body language, facial expressions, and tone of voice. Ivan found a unique sense of amusement in gathering these key bits of information that he would then store away for later use.

Of course, there were those few nations that Ivan would watch much more attentively than the others; there were those that, given ideal situations, could perhaps pose a threat to Ivan and his country.

However, much to Ivan's interest, there were a few typically insignificant nations that had just recently managed to gain his interest. Unless he was mistaken – which he almost never was – said insignificant nations appeared to know something. Something that must have been very, very important for all the stress it had been causing them. Something perhaps even a little bit_ dangerous_.

Something Ivan wanted to know.

And when Ivan wanted something, he wasn't one to give up on it easily.

Fortunately for him, it didn't look like he was going to have to try that hard after all.

As he strode casually down the hall, biding his time as the conference building slowly cleared out, he was pleased to see his first target turning the corner ahead of him, briefcase clasped tightly in hand, head down, gaze lowered to the floor. Ivan quickened his pace and closed the distance between himself and his target in record time, unseen in his approach. Without breaking stride, Ivan swiftly reached out and latched onto the upper arm of the unsuspecting nation.

With a firm tug, Ivan pulled Canada off his path and pivoted him onto his own, physically forcing the surprised nation to walk side-by-side in the opposite direction.

"Ah, wha- wait, I wasn't going this-" he began, struggling for only a moment, still slightly overwhelmed from the sudden change.

"I don't care," Ivan silenced him. Then, plastering on a wide grin, he turned to the other man. "Lovely weather this country has, isn't it?"

Canada gaped, mouth opening and closing soundlessly several times before he stammered out, "W-what?"

_This may end up being a lot simpler than I thought, _Ivan mused contentedly.

Just then, Canada's eyes widened even further, as if he had just made some sort of realization. "Er, you've… I'm… There's been a mistake. I'm not America."

Ivan smile broadened. "_Da_, I'm very aware," he said. Then, seizing his opportunity, he continued with, "But since you've kindly brought up the subject, how _is_ our American comrade doing these days?"

Canada's face paled, stumbling slightly at Ivan's forced pace before regaining his footing. "I don't understand," he said in a rush.

"Don't think I haven't noticed, little Canada," Ivan admonished playfully. "You've been watching him lately, haven't you?"

The Canadian's expression looked torn somewhere between shock and alarm. That in itself was enough of an answer for Ivan; instantly, his expressions were confirmed.

Something big was definitely going on here.

Although he usually didn't concern himself with the petty problems of others, Ivan always liked to keep tabs on those who could threaten him. Albeit, that list may or may not have only consisted of America.

If something was wrong with his past rival – something to make his brother so clearly uneasy – then Ivan wanted to know what it was. He wanted to be prepared; and if the Canadian's frightened expression was anything to go by, now was the time to be doing so.

Ivan could already see the playing field of what was soon to come being defined, and he had no intention of being left on the sidelines. He wanted to know what was going to happen, he wanted time to formulate a strategy, he wanted time to set himself on the winning team.

"So," he continued, trying for a bit of that casual western slang. "Do tell."

Canada nearly lost his footing a second time, words spilling from his mouth and he struggled to regain his balance without dropping his briefcase or accidentally against Ivan. "Look, I don't- I mean, I'm sure Alfred appreciates your concern and all, uh, R-Russia, but there's really nothing wrong-"

"You're lying."

"N-no, I'm not," Canada attempted, but the stutter did little to help his cause. "Why would I be lying?"

Ivan fixed the anxious Canadian with a pointed stare. "That, comrade, is _exactly_ what I am trying to find out." The stare darkened as he continued. "Unfortunately, you are making the process of doing so much more difficult than it needs to be. That will have to change."

Canada, however, seemed to have other plans. With a sharp tug, he tore his arm from Ivan's grasp, immediately stepping back and away. Ivan turned back, watching the other with an amused smile. He could have easily prevented the Canadian from escaping, but seeing as their current conversation was getting him nowhere fast, he decided to see what would happen if he let him go.

"Listen," Canada began, still taking cautionary steps backwards. "There's nothing wrong with my brother. If there were, I would know." He laughed a little at this, sounding strained, but quickly regathered himself. "But, you know, I'll be sure to, um, to let him know that you asked about him."

"I highly doubt that," Ivan said dubiously.

Ignoring that last remark, Canada pivoted on his heel. Taking deliberate, measured steps, he quickly made his way back in the direction he had come, looking every bit as if he were running for his life.

Ivan watched him go for a few moments, simply considering.

_Well,_ he thought after a moment. _I suppose this means it's time to switch tactics._

Ivan had no trouble keeping up as the Canadian continued back through the building and towards the parking lot. He found it amusing - the way Canada moved with his head low and shoulders hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. It was as if he was desperately trying to regain that state of apparent invisibility he was so constantly plagued with. Nonetheless, Ivan followed with ease as Canada made his way outside, around the corner of the building, towards the back of the nearly empty parking lot.

Finally, they stopped, Canada struggling with the locks on his rental car and Ivan standing a few feet back, watching with amusement.

After standing silently for several moments, Ivan spoke up. "Would you like some help with that?" he asked in a kind voice that almost could have sounded sincere, if it weren't for the admittedly creepy way he was currently stalking the younger nation.

Canada let out a desperate, flustered laugh. "No, no, I've got it," he called back unconvincingly, jamming the key into the lock and giving it a sharp turn. Finally, the lock clicked. Canada swung the door open with surprising speed, tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat, and already had one foot in the car by the time Ivan had stepped forwards to grab the back of his jacket. With a sharp tug, Ivan pulled him back, using his other hand to slam the car door shut before he had time to make a second attempt at escape.

Canada gave a shout of surprise, but did nothing else to prevent himself being pulled back. It was almost as if he was in shock, as if he hadn't actually thought Ivan would take physical measures against him.

_If that truly is the case, then he has a lot to learn._

"Aha," Ivan chastised lightly, spinning the smaller man around to place them face to face. "I'm not done with you yet, little Canada."

Canada took an involuntary step backwards, electively trapping himself between Ivan and the car. It took a moment before he could manage words again, and even then, they sounded shaky and weak. "R-Russia, I really do have to get going-"

"And I will be more than happy to let you do exactly that just as soon as you tell me the truth." Ivan said. "Something is wrong with America. He is not acting like himself. In fact, he has not been acting like himself for a long time. You've finally noticed, and now _you _are not acting like yourself. Then yesterday I saw you talking to tiny Italy, and now _he _is not acting like himself either. He is scared." Ivan pressed, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are scared too. You hide it better than him, but you are still scared. Now, _I want to know why_."

Ivan knew he was giving a lot away – after all, it was always better to let others think you knew less than you actually did – but at the moment Ivan simply hoped that by showing the Canadian what he currently understood of his situation, the latter might then feel more compelled to confide in Ivan, in the hopes that perhaps he might be well understood.

At the moment, it didn't _quite _seem to be working.

Instead of pouring out confessions, Canada was completely frozen beneath Ivan's icy glare, hand gripping the door handle behind him so tightly Ivan thought it might snap off. They stayed like that for a few long moments, until the blonde finally seemed to regain some sense of self. He looked away, unable to meet Ivan's gaze any longer, clearly having some sort of internal debate.

Finally he spoke, voice quiet and hesitant, but the words were at long last ringing with some semblance of truth.

"Wouldn't you be scared too? If you thought something terrible had happened to one of your siblings?"

Ivan blinked, taken aback. That... hadn't _quite _been what he had been expecting.

Nevertheless, it was definitely new information to consider. Based on Canada's words, he wasn't so much scared _of _the American as he was _for _him, although his actions from the last couple of days would still very much beg to differ.

But Ivan wasn't one to let such an opportunity pass, especially not since he was finally starting to get somewhere. He stepped back slightly as to give the other nation a little breathing room, using the time to think up a suitable response.

While it would have been enjoyable to give the Canadian a firm reminder that he didn't _ever_ get scared, Ivan knew that that wouldn't be an extremely effective response at the moment, so he settled instead for answering the question with another one. "That depends. What exactly is this 'terrible thing' I believe to have happened?"

Canada continued to stare down at his feet, clearly trying to think up a way to put his thoughts in to words.

After a few moments of silence, the smaller man looked up, swallowing thickly before taking a deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak-

- and was promptly interrupted by the very loud, very _angry _sounding voice of a certain Italian.

"What the _fuck_, Wilson?"

South Italy stormed around the corner of the building less than twenty feet away from where Ivan and Canada stood, dragging his apprehensive looking younger brother behind him. He had his free hand fisted tightly into a ball and raised in the air threateningly, his face bright red and eyes alight with anger.

"You think you can just ask us all these creepy-ass questions about your creepy-ass brother and then have him go off and nearly murder Feliciano in the goddamn bathroom the very next-" Looking up, South Italy froze, finally taking into account the extent of the scene before him. His mouth hung open slightly as uncertain hazel eyes flickered between Canada's equally uncertain expression and Ivan's own unimpressed face. Behind him, North Italy pulled free of his now-limp grasp, taking a cautious step backwards.

Although anyone else in his position may have been unhappy about having been interrupted just as Canada seemed about ready to break, Ivan was not 'anyone else', and was in fact already beginning to imagine the many ways which this strange new turn of events could be used further to his advantage.

It also would seem that his earlier suspicions had been correct; the Vargas brothers had somehow already been dragged into this conflict. How much Canada had already told them, Ivan was unsure. It obviously couldn't have been anything too detailed, if South Italy's earlier demand for an explanation was anything to go by.

Still, neither of the Italians had ever been particularly difficult people to read, and although Ivan rarely ever spoke to either of them, he was willing to bet verbally extracting what little information they held would present just as little of a challenge.

"Aha," he mused brightly, "It seems as though you have _much_ to explain." He flashed a predatory grin in the Canadian's direction. "To all of us."

South Italy, however, was just quick to back down. "No, that's… that's fine, actually." He eyed Ivan warily, his anger quickly melting away. "You two are obviously in the middle of… something." He began to back away, now pushing his brother back the way they had come rather than pulling him forwards.

"Sorry," North Italy mumbled in Canada's direction. Whether he was apologizing for having interrupted or for abandoning the Canadian in such an obviously unfavourable position, Ivan could only guess.

Before either of them could go, Ivan spoke up. "Stay," he demanded firmly, somehow managing to make the simple word sound for all its worth like a deadly threat.

South Italy barely glanced back as he answered. "No, it's f-"

"_Stay_," Ivan repeated, this time effectively causing both Italians to hesitate in their escape. His voice brightened as he continued. "I know exactly why you are here, da? I am here for the same reason."

This time, South Italy did look back, expression tentative but interested.

"We seek the same answers," Ivan persisted. "And I'm sure little Canada here will be much more inclined to give them when there are more of us demanding." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Besides, how do you expect to able to protect yourselves from the threat America presents, when you don't yet even know what that threat truly is?"

South Italy frowned thoughtfully. "Fine. You make a good point," he admitted, still looking hesitant. "But let me ask you this, bastard: what's got you so interested? What could possible 'pose a threat' to big old fucking scary Russia?"

Ivan glared, but deciding to let the insult slide for the moment. "Excellent question. Perhaps our Canadian comrade can answer it for me." He stepped back, as if giving space for the explanation he hoped was soon to follow.

Canada opened his mouth slowly, looking for all intents and purposes as if he were about to pass out. After a long moment, he closed it again, clearly too overwhelmed to speak.

Ivan gave a slightly disappointed sigh. "Allow me to help move things along." He stared pointedly at the smaller nation. "Would you mind telling us exactly why America tried to harm tiny Italy this morning?"

Canada blinked, looking surprised. "What do you mean?" he asked, sounding truly confused.

Ivan elaborated with a smile, "I remember quite clearly that South Italy stated your brother tried to, in fact,_ kill_ his northern half. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to why?"

Canada's eyes widened. "Wh- he didn't…he… _kill_?" He glanced desperately between the other three nations, as if hoping one of them would say disprove the accusation for him.

"Yeah!" South Italy piped up, his earlier rage having made its return. "What the fuck was that all about? Your psycho-ass brother tried-"

Much to everyone's surprise, it was North Italy who cut his brother off. "Um, actually, it wasn't so much that he was trying to _kill_ me… He was just being really, _really_ creepy... and stuff."

Three pairs of eyes landed on him, displaying various levels of shock, annoyance and amusement.

"Wait," South Italy said disbelievingly. "Are you telling me that whole fucking panic attack you had back there… was because he was _being creepy_?"

"Well," North Italy looked away, fidgeting with a lose thread on the edge of his sleeve. "He wasn't _just _being creepy. I think he was angry too. Probably because he knew that I had figured out what happened to Cuba. Either that or he was mad at himself because he forgot to clean up the blood after he-"

"_Blood_?" Canada's voice hitched, horrified.

Ivan concealed a smirk, watching the scene before him unfold. It looked like they were _finally_ starting to actually get somewhere.

"I take it you were unaware of this?" Ivan addressed this questions towards Canada. "I would have thought that after the fight the Cuban and your brother shared and Cuba mysteriously disappearing only a few days later, the suspicion of foul play to be a fairly obvious one."

Canada shook his head slowly, eyes distant and clouded over. "I… I had no idea." His voice was soft, almost apologetic. "I mean, I knew he… but I never thought he'd actually _hurt _anyone." His voice trembled on the last few words, hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides.

"More than hurt, it would seem." Ivan stated matter-of-factly. He glanced to the two Italians for confirmation, but they both had their gazes averted to the ground. They at least had the decency to stay silent and look away as Canada came to terms with what had happened.

Ivan, the persistent nation that he was, pushed onwards. "You see now, don't you, Canada? This is serious." His voice grew grave. "People will get hurt, _especially_ if they cannot protect themselves." He went in for the finishing blow. "You wouldn't want that to be _your fault_, would you?"

Canada didn't answer, but his expression was pained and filled with regret. Ivan could tell he was beginning to hear the truth in his words – but was also likely beginning to blame himself for what had happened to Cuba.

"If you truly care for the well-being of anyone but yourself," he continued, heedless, "then you will tell us what is going on." He leaned in so that he was right next to the Canadian. "What is wrong with your brother? Why is he doing this? Perhaps we can help. But only-" he added sharply, "-if you tell us the truth."

A suffocating silence fell over the group, and for a long moment nobody made a single movement. Then, taking a shaky breath, Canada began.

"It's… It's not really something that's _easy _to explain."

"We have time." South Italy stepped forwards, eyes narrowed.

North Italy followed, close behind. "Lovi, what about our plane?" he protested weakly, obviously far less interested in whatever Canada had to say and far more afraid of getting involved in anything that included Ivan.

"I am sure we will all be capable of finding new means of transportation home. For now, that is not important." He glanced back towards Canada. "You were saying?"

Canada twisted his hands into the hem of his jacket, looking away nervously yet again while Ivan stood patiently, knowing the long-await explanation was soon to come.

After a long moment, it finally did.

"I can't exactly be sure that I'm telling you the truth, because I'm still not sure if what I know - what I _think_ I know-" he corrected himself, "even _is _the truth." He glanced around at the others, perhaps to see if they were still following. "Anyway," he continued hesitantly, "the whole thing started off as a suspicion. A bad feeling, I guess. But the more I thought about it, and the more I looked into it, the more it started to make sense."

"What started to make sense?" Ivan asked carefully.

"I think… I think the America we've been seeing - the one who followed you," he finally looked up, addressing North Italy, "and the one who got so angry at Carlos and the one who… hurt him because of it… I don't think that's really my brother."

"You think he is an imposter?" Ivan questioned, head tilted slightly.

"Well, to an extent, yes," Canada admitted sheepishly, as if afraid Ivan would think the idea stupid.

"And how long exactly do you think this 'fake America' has been impersonating your brother?" Ivan asked evenly, interested, but not quite yet committed.

Why anyone would _want _to pose as the American personification was beyond him, as it would no doubt include acting like an idiot and looking like a fool, but would also require someone with not only extreme speed and strength, but intelligence and cunning as well. Not to mention they'd have to possess an extensive knowledge of the interworking of many countries including America's, as well as knowledge of his personal life and relations. To pull off such a feat, to fool so many people, would require an actor of nearly unfathomable skill.

And most importantly, they would have to be completely identical in appearance to the real Alfred F Jones.

Ivan knew America was obnoxious, arrogant, and had possessed an insatiable need to be the center of attention at all times. There was no way he would have let someone else steal his identity and take his place in the world - at least not without a fight.

Taking -and keeping- someone like America down, pretending to be him, and doing it all without anyone else noticing was no easy task.

An intriguing idea, perhaps, but so far entirely unfounded.

"The American Civil War," a voice from behind him, one that Ivan had almost forgotten was there, spoke up suddenly.

He glanced back towards the older of the two Italians, who stood firmly rooted in place, eyes wide in realization. "_That's_ why you were asking us all of those questions," he continued. "_That's_ why you wanted to know all of that shit… why you wanted to know if there could somehow be two of them."

Ivan, slightly confused by South Italy's words, turned back towards Canada, expecting clarification.

Instead, he was met with the sight of Canada, looking an odd mix of terrified, relieved, and perturbed. "Yes," he admitted in a small voice.

"Well shit, Wilbert!" South Italy growled. "Why the hell didn't you ever say anything? It's been what, two-hundred fucking years since then?"

Canada took no notice of the incorrect use of his name, too busy with stammering out an explanation. "I just- I didn't know until just recently. It's not as if I could have just stood up one day and announced to the world that my brother-"

"Why the fuck not? It would have been better than sitting around and waiting until he went off and _murdered_ somebody!"

Ivan, who was just now starting to realize he probably should have brushed up on his American history, was still somewhat 'out of the loop' so to speak. It was a position he did not enjoy being in, to say the least. "I hate to interrupt," he cut in, "but what exactly does a quarrel over slavery have to do with your brother's so-called imposter?"

Canada looked him dead in the eye for what was perhaps the first time all day. "The Confederate States of America," he said simply.

And with those words, everything clicked in to place.

"Oh," Ivan said, suddenly, inexplicably, unable to think of anything else to say.

"But, I mean," Canada tried, trembling just slightly, "it's not like I have any actual proof or anything, i-it's j-just-" he seemed to run out of stamina about halfway through his argument, sagging slightly against the car behind him. It was almost as if having to speak the words out loud for what had probably been the first time had taken its toll on him not just mentally, but physically as well.

"But you know, don't you?" Ivan watched him carefully, gauging his reaction. "You just know."

Canada's mouth worked uselessly for a second before he gave up trying to speak altogether and settled for a nod instead swallowing thickly.

"Still," Ivan continued. "It's been a long time since the American Civil War."

"Nearly a century and a half," Canada supplied for him, voice distant, almost as if he was unaware he had spoken at all.

Ivan nodded. "Possibly longer, depending on how early this 'other America' came into the picture. That is a long time to pretend to be someone you're not. Some might even say it's long enough for you to truly become that person, or at least for you yourself to believe that you have."

"I know," Canada admitted, still looking pale and shaken. "I think that's why it was so hard to tell the difference. Especially now. Who would suspect anything after that long?"

"There's another question we need to be asking ourselves," South Italy interjected suddenly. "Why hasn't this happened to anyone else? I mean, there's been more than just one civil dispute in the history of the world, so why would a second personification for the offending side pop up for the American Civil War, but never any others?"

"I don't know," Canada said for what must have been at least the fifth time that day. "But you said it yourself; in order for a nation to have more than one personification, it either needs to legally break apart into separate countries, or it needs to have two separate regions that are _so_ different that it's impossible to ignore. Well, America got both," Canada explained, and it was obvious from the way he spoke that he had already given himself the same speech over and over in his head. "Most civil wars are just unrest between the people and the government. Rebellions, terrorist attacks, revolutions, whatnot. But the American Civil War _literally_ split America in two. It was one half of the country fighting against the other; and that's the kind of difference that's impossible to ignore."

He took a long breath, letting the words sink in for the others.

"Not to mention, the Confederate States actually succeeded from the Union. They actually became _their own _country. With their own government, and capital, and constitution, and money," his voice hitched on the last few words, desperation evident in his voice. "So, it makes sense, doesn't it?" he asked finally, voice managing to even out again. "It makes sense that another personification would show up. Otherwise, who would there have been to represent it all?"

South Italy was the first to break the long silence that followed Canada's words, but instead of answering the question, he asked one of his own.

"What I would like to know – assuming your suspicion is true and there really is a homicidal nineteenth century doppelgänger running around – is why didn't he disappear? After the war was over and everything went back to normal, how could he still stick around when he had nothing left to represent?"

Ivan paused, thinking it over for himself for a moment before realizing he really had no answer. He turned to Canada, who looked just as lost as he did.

"Gilbert did it." The forth member of their conversation finally spoke up, making his presence known once again.

"…What?" South Italy asked, turning back halfway to face his brother.

"Gilbert. Prussia," North Italy clarified hesitantly but with a rare determination. "He shouldn't even be alive anymore either, but that doesn't seem to be stopping him."

Ivan scowled at the mention of the Former Kingdom of Prussia's name, memories of their long and admittedly bloody history together rising in his mind. He knew Gilbert all too well, and was fully aware of his tiresome refusal to just roll over and die like he should have a long time ago.

"This is true," Ivan said, the words helping draw him back to the more relevant thoughts of the present. The other nations remained silent for a moment, each one seeming to consider the implications of their newest discovery.

"Okay," Canada's voice flitted hesitantly between the four nations. "I guess that's another point in favour of the existence of this… o-other America." He swallowed roughly. "I was kind of, um, hoping you – that you would all disprove my little theory," he laughed harshly, arms rising up to cover his eyes as he continued. "But now it just seems even more likely."

In the silence that followed the Canadian's words, the smaller of the two Italians took a small step forward, "Don't worry, Canada," he said tentatively, voice apologetic. "It's not like we have any real proof yet, right?"

"Ah, proof," Ivan chimed. "We will have to get ourselves some, won't we?"

The other shot him various quizzical glances, prompting him to follow with, "We can't very well just leave this issue unsolved."

At this, Southern Italy scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Well have fun with that."

Ivan tilted his head, feinting confusion. "You're not going to help us?"

"No," he shook his head resolutely. "No, we're done. We've probably already missed our plane, and there's no way in hell we're sticking around here any longer just to stand around thinking up a bunch of stupid theories about that crazy bastard or his damn doppelgänger."

Ivan chuckled quietly, not in the least bit fazed by the other's words. "If that's how you truly feel, then I won't stop you." He smiled at the disbelieving nation. "Do know, however, we will be in touch. That goes for all of you." He directed this last part mostly towards Canada, who looked only mildly nauseated by the thought.

He began moving again for the door handle again, as if to make another attempt as escape. Ivan, for his part, was content to let him go. He had gotten what he wanted. He'd gotten the information he was looking for, and so far it appeared as though he was one of the only four to have it.

He intended to keep it that way.

"Now of course, we _won't_ be telling anyone else about our little chat here, _da_? I'm sure none of us are looking to have someone slip up and accidentally let our American comrade in on our little secret here, and the more people who know, the more likely that possibility becomes."

He passed one last glance over the faces of the other three, taking stock of their expressions. When it was apparent that they were all resigned to their fates, he smiled, satisfied.

And so it begun - his strategy, his winning team. As unlikely of a bunch as they may have seemed, for now, at least, they were all one step ahead in the game.

And one step ahead of the danger.

All he could hope for was that by the time it finally caught up to them, he would be in a winning position. It was up to the others to decide whether or not they wanted to be there with him.


	8. Plan

**AN: gosh darn kiddos, look how far we've come**

* * *

><p>Time passed, crawling along at a gruellingly slow and tiresome pace.<p>

Not to say that Matthew was actually _looking forward_ to anything in the near future. Quite the opposite, actually. Had his duty as a nation allowed, Matthew would have much sooner remained at home, hidden away under the warm, safe covers of his bed for the rest of his ridiculously long life. Or at least until all his problems went away.

Unfortunately for him, that really didn't seem to be much of an option. Matthew's problems didn't seem like they would be going _anywhere_ anytime soon. If anything, they only seemed to be getting worse and worse.

Where his biggest concerns used to be the stress and pressure the other nations put his brother under, he now spent his days and nights fretting over the possible existence of said brother's evil twin who may or may have been plotting to kill them all.

Then there was Russia – who was already terrifying enough in his own right – who seemed to have suddenly developed some sort of new-found obsession with Matthew's theory about Confederacy (as Matthew had now unconsciously resorted to calling him).

And, as only his luck would have it, less than a week after arriving back home, Matthew had gotten the call that there was to be yet _another _meeting held in Paris in exactly a month's time. And so it was that a month later that Matthew found himself back in Europe once again, this time twice as stressed as he was before and with twice as many possibly psychotic and all around terrifying nations to avoid.

All he wanted was to attract the least amount of attention to himself as possible. This meant showing up only _just _before the meetings each morning, always being the first one out of the room every time there was a break, never lingering in the hallways or the break room any longer than was absolutely necessary, and pretty much making sure to never make eye contact with any single other member of the conference.

This was especially true regarding Confederacy and Russia, both of whom he went out of his way to avoid like the plague.

However, on the first day, when the subject of a certain Cuban (or lack thereof) had been brought up, Matthew hadn't been able to help shooting a quick glance in North Italy's direction. The two had made eye contact for an extremely brief, extremely awkward moment before the Italian had broken away, staring down at his lap guiltily instead.

Germany had demanded that anyone with information in regards to Cuba's last sightings or what may have happened to him were to report it immediately.

Italy hadn't said a single word.

Not that he would have, what with the way Russia had been practically burning a hole in to the top of his head with that stare of his. It had almost been as if the larger nation had been _daring _him to say something and simultaneously promising him of the horrors to come if he did.

Matthew sighed, back pressed flat against the cool surface of the conference building's walls. Down the hall to his right and around the corner, he could hear the footsteps and voices of the rest of the nations as they all flooded out of the meeting hall. He had been the first one out yet again; but he still needed to wait until the hall was mostly empty before he could dare waiting for the elevator down to the parking lot, where he intended to wait out the duration of the break hidden away in his car _yet again_.

Taking the stairs would be even more dangerous, as getting to them actually required going _through _the break room. As paranoid as it may have sounded, Matthew was desperate to avoid any repeat of the confrontation Russia had forced on him on the last day on the previous summit.

Matthew suppressed a shudder at the mere thought.

It was as if Russia's interest in Matthew's brother had increased exponentially after finding out about the Confederate States. He didn't know whether to consider it a good thing or a bad thing, and he didn't know if it was because Russia actually wanted to _help_, or if it was just because he was obsessed with knowing everything about everyone all the time. Either way, it was _creepy_ as _hell_.

Then there was the fact that he seemed intent on keeping it all a secret, including Cuba's death. This was the part that truly baffled Matthew.

He understood the need to keep their knowledge from Confederacy himself, obviously.

_But why not tell the others? Why not warn them? Why not try to get them on our side too?_ he wondered.

Of course, he never would have tried by himself. The others would probably just think he was completely insane, thinking up something like that about his own brother. But with Russia and_ possibly_ the both Italies to vouch for him, they might actually stand a chance at convincing the other nations, and maybe even saving them from the same fate that had befallen Cuba…

Matthew felt the familiar sensations of guilt and grief wash over him.

Cuba had been innocent. Rude and insulting, maybe, but he hadn't deserved that. He hadn't deserved to _die._

Any chance Matthew had of continuing his depressing chain of thoughts was quickly shattered as a familiar figure suddenly waltzed around the corner of the hall, stopping short upon spotting him.

"Mathieu, _mon cher_! I've been looking for you everywhere!" Francis exclaimed, clasping his hands together excitedly at the sight of his former colony.

Matthew froze, completely unresponsive, almost as if believing that if he waiting long enough, Francis would reveal that he had been talking to somebody else... in the empty hallway. He regarded his former caretaker with a mix of disbelief and confusion.

"You… You _have_?" he finally managed after realizing that the Frenchman was, indeed, speaking to him.

"_Mais oui_!" Francis replied almost instantly, beckoning the Canadian forward. "Come! What have you been doing way over here all by yourself? Are you avoiding me?" he asked with mock hurt, a hand splayed over his chest in apparent offence.

Matthew didn't move. "N-No, I haven't been avoiding_ you_, I'm just-"

"Then come!" He beckoned again, and this time Matthew felt his legs begin to move beneath him, slow and hesitantly at first, but picking up momentum as he approached the first friendly figure he had had contact with in over a week,

"Say hello to your _papa_, hm?" Francis continued smoothly.

When Matthew finally reached him he was pulled in for a tight hug, Francis' hands firm around him.

"_Bonjour papa_," he mumbled awkwardly, face buried against the Frenchman's shoulder, before quickly detaching himself from the embrace.

Francis sighed contentedly, releasing him. "Mathieu," he gave his former colony a quick once-over. "It's been far too long, hasn't it?"

Before Matthew could even have a chance to agree, Francis continued. "I can't even remember the last time I saw you!"

Matthew swallowed the urge to point out the irony of that sentence. "Yes," he settled for instead, even though that didn't really answer anything.

Francis flashed him an easy smile, and Matthew couldn't help but feel like something was up.

"So, was there something you, er, wanted?" he asked cautiously.

"Mathieu," Francis _tsk_ed, his smile falling in to a light pout. "Do you truly think so little of me? Surely a nation can choose to spend some quality time with his former colony without _wanting _something out of it?"

Matthew nodded uncertainly, "Sure, I suppose."

Francis reached out, placing a light hand on his forearm, and Matthew was almost tempted to pull away.

_Since when did I b_e_come so popular all of the sudden?_ he wondered. First Russia, and now this.

_Francis never gives me this much attention, and when he does it's _always _because he wants something._ It could usually be anything from carrying his bags for him to delivering bad news to England that he was too scared to deliver himself. But it was never _just because._

"In fact," Francis started, back to that affectionate smile of his.

Matthew could already feel the dread rising up within him. _Here it comes…_

"I wondering if perhaps you wanted stay over at my place this weekend after the conference is over?"

Matthew paused, caught off-guard yet again. "You… want me to stay over?" he asked slowly.

Francis nodded. "Haven't you missed your papa? We have so much catching up to do!" he explained eagerly.

"Um, well," Matthew struggled for words. It wasn't every day that someone actually _invited him over_. Especially not Francis, who was usually always too busy annoying England or hanging out with Prussia and Spain or annoying England _with _Prussia and Spain.

"_Alors, que pensez-vous_?" Francis pressed, brining Matthew's thoughts back to the present.

"I mean, I'll have to make sure I can, uh, reschedule my flight…" he stumbled over his words, still slightly overwhelmed.

"Which shouldn't be too big of a problem, non?" Francis continued expectantly, reaching forward to grab Matthew by the arm and pulling him close until they were both side by side.

"N-No, it shouldn't-" Matthew started, tripping slightly at the unexpected movement.

"Then it's settled!" the Frenchman exclaimed happily, pivoting on his heel and tugging the other along as he began to walk. "Now let's walk, shall we?"

Matthew gave a small yelp of surprise as he was pulled forwards, stumbling slightly and grasping onto the other man to steady himself.

"Wait! Why?"

"How much time will you need to get your things together after the conference ends?" Francis asked, oblivious to Matthew's strife, and now making his way back around the corner of the hall.

Matthew barely heard the question, panic beginning to rise within him as he realized where they were headed. He was hit with a sudden sense of déjà-vu as an image Russia's previous hold on him – which was eerily similar to the odd grip Francis had on him now – flashed through his mind.

"Um, Francis," he tried, "I wasn't actually planning to go this w-"

"Nonsense!" Francis waved his free hand about carelessly, as if swatting away the notion. "You can't possibly expect me to let you waste your entire break just standing all by yourself!"

He stumbled purposefully, struggling to halt their sudden movement into what was currently considered highly dangerous territory as he desperately tried to think up an excuse.

"But, I have-"

"Besides, if we wait too long all the good pastries will be gone!" Francis stage whispered, as if it was some kind of secret conspiracy.

They rounded the corner into the still somewhat crowed hall, while Francis, for his part, remained completely oblivious to his former colony's rising panic. Matthew could already hear the jumbled voices of various nations floating up from further down the hall

"J-Just hold on a second, Francis. I c-can't- I have to-" With one final tug, Matthew finally tore his arm free, eyes wide and breath coming in laboured gasps.

This, at last, caught the Frenchman's attention. He paused, arms still outstretched uncertainly. "What's gotten in to you all of the sudden, _mon cher_?" he asked, voice laced with genuine concern.

"I was-"

"-Planning to meet with me, weren't you, Matvey?"

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, causing Matthew to jolt away, a cold shiver running down his spine.

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit-_

"Russia," Francis said, his voice a mix of surprise and caution. Even the Frenchman – confident and flirtatious as he was – was smart enough to be wary of Russia. "I didn't see you there."

Russia just smiled. "No, you didn't."

Matthew – knowing by this point that it was completely useless to fight back – peered carefully over his shoulder, but not before seeing Francis take a hesitant step backwards.

"Well," he said somewhat awkwardly. "I see you two are in the middle of something. Or are about to be."

"Indeed we are," Russia agreed.

Francis glanced questioningly from Matthew to Russia and back again. He searched the younger man's face for a brief moment before stepped back again.

"Well then, Mathieu. I suppose we can work out the details of our arrangement… another time."

Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but Russia beat him to it.

"I suppose you can."

Francis frowned, clearly not appreciative of being disregarded so quickly, but was smart enough to keep quiet about it. "Well then, _à bientôt_," he said to Matthew.

"_À bientôt papa_," Matthew agreed weakly, watching with inner despair as Francis turned away

They watched him go for a few moments – Russia's hand still heavy on his shoulder – until, with a small gasp of surprise, Matthew was shoved forwards.

"Russia?" he began to ask, greatly confused as to why they were still headed in the same direction in which Francis has just left.

"We have much to discuss, little Matvey" he replied simply, using that same strange nickname as before, his voice laced with an _almost_ friendly but also somewhat mocking tone. "But not," he continued "without the rest of our comrades."

It took Matthew a few seconds to figure out what – or who, in this case – Russia was talking about. By the time he had been practically tossed into the break room, it would have mattered if had anyway, as South Italy was seated alone at a table directly in front of the entrance.

Russia all but threw him down into the empty across from the unsuspecting Italian before casually taking a seat of his own directly beside him.

South Italy glanced up, his ever-irritated expression quickly turning startled as he realized just who exactly had decided to disrupt him.

Their sudden entrance alone had been enough to garner the questioning gazes of several of the nearby nations, thankfully none of which included Confederacy. South Italy, at least, was still smart enough to speak in hushed volumes, trying not to attract any more unwanted attention.

"What do you want?" he hissed venomously, leaning as far away from the other two as possible.

Russia leaned forward casually, as if denying South Italy the distance he was currently trying to put between them. "Why wouldn't we check up on our little comrade?"

South Italy scowled. "I am _not _your _comrade._" He scrunched up his nose distastefully. "In fact, I don't think _anyone_ here is your comrade."

Russia ignored the insult. "Ah, on the subject of people who are here," he said with sudden interest, twisting the other's words around smoothly, "where is your brother?"

"Not here," South Italy bit out. "Much like I wish you two weren't."

Russia ignored this too. "_Da_, but where is he _exactly_?"

"I don't fucking know! He's probably sitting with the German bastard or something!" the Italian snapped, voice rising slightly above a whisper. "I don't keep tabs on other people's whereabouts twenty-four-fucking-seven. Unlike some people." This comment was obviously directed at Russia, at whom he continued to glare.

Russia returned the glare with his own disapproving frown. "I would highly suggest you lower your voice. You are attracting attention," he pointed out.

It was true, Matthew realized with a jolt of dread. He allowed himself to scan quickly over the majority of the nearby faces. Again, none appeared to belong to Confederacy.

_Still,_ he reminded himself soberly. _That doesn't mean he can't hear us._

"Yeah, because _your_ entrance was _so _damn subtle," South Italy retorted sarcastically.

Russia's expression hardened, and Matthew briefly wondered if he had finally reached his limit with the Italian's attitude.

Russia, however, remained as stoic as ever. "Nevertheless, I suppose it's just us for today," he said.

"Whoa, hold on a second! What are you talking about? There's no _us._" South Italy gestured between them. "There's just _you._" He pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor. "I am _not _part of this."

Russia raised his eyebrows, voice challenging. "So you're saying you are not concerned by any of this?"

The Italian paused, considering the words. "Concerned? Sure, maybe," he admitted. "But convinced?" he gave a snort. "Not even close."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, it is," South Italy said defiantly, eyes narrowed.

"And just what exactly would it take to finally – as you put it – convince you?"

"Oh, I don't know…" South Italy drawled dryly. "Oh, wait! Yes I do. How about some actual fucking _proof_?"

Matthew spoke up then, despite having remained silent for nearly the entire conversation so far. "Proof?"

"Yeah, proof." South Italy fixed him with a hard look. "Real, cold hard evidence." He leaned in. "Until you can actually _get _some, I have no reason to be concerned. Not for you, and definitely not for _il bastardo Americano. _Or his so-called doppelganger."

"What about for yourself? Or perhaps your brother?" Russia challenged, not missing a beat.

Matthew watched the exchange raptly, heart beating furiously in his chest as he waited to see how the other would respond.

The Italian's brow furrowed as he frowned, looking only slightly confused.

"My _brother_?"

"I'm simply saying that for all you know, our American look-alike could be planning to do to either one of you what he has already done to Cuba."

South Italy's frown deepened, looking troubled, despite his earlier claims. "A-And just why would he want to do that?"

Russia shrugged casually, but his cold grin gave him away. He was enjoying being able to torment South Italy like this. "Many reasons," he began to list them off. "Perhaps he wants to make up for what he never go the opportunity to do to your brother during the last conference. It is to be assumed that he is not a big fan of 'northern halves', after all. Or perhaps he is on to us being on to him. Then again, perhaps he simply just does not like _you_ and your _foul mouth_." Russia spat the last few words, bearing a scowl now to match South Italy's.

South Italy opened and closed his mouth uselessly for a long moment, eyes wide and clearly perturbed by the sudden change of conversation. Matthew could understand why. It would, after all, be more than a little upsetting to have to listen to someone name off reasons why someone else might want you dead.

"Yeah, well," he finally began, grasping for some kind of suitable response, "for all _you _know, he could be planning to do the exact same shit to you."

Russia pounced, seizing South Italy's moment of weakness. "So you agree that he's planning _something_?"

"No!" South Italy backtracked instantly. "That's not- Listen, okay? You guys can't even know for certain that what happened to Cuba - _if _something happened to Cuba - was done by this fucker."

Ivan raised a single eyebrow. "You _really_ believe that was all a coincidence?"

South Italy closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to compose himself. "It doesn't matter what I think," he said finally. "And it doesn't matter what you think either," he added. "All that matters is the evidence, and you don't seem to have any of that, do you? All you've got to go on is Winston over here's damn 'hunch' or whatever you want to call it."

Matthew opened his mouth to offer the correction of his last name, but decided better of it at the last moment. Then, out of nowhere, another idea struck him. "Well…" he began slowly, the sudden intrusion into the so far mostly two-way conversation earning him the attention of both nations much faster than expected. "What if… What if we could get you some proof?" He thought it over for a moment before adding "Or at least someone to testify for us… sort of?"

South Italy gave him an odd look. "And just how exactly do you plan to do that? What, are you going to ask the American bastard himself?"

Matthew grimaced at the less-than-pleasant idea. There was no way _that _would end well. "No, I was thinking maybe-"

"Exactly," South Italy cut, smirking. "And it's not like _anyone else _on this damn planet is going to know anything."

"Well, actually, England might"-

"I mean it took you about a billion fucking years-" South Italy froze, cutting himself off mid-sentence as the Canadian's words finally caught up with him. "Did you say England?"

Beside him, Russia clapped his hands together, as if amused by the idea. "Ah, what a brilliant idea, Matvey! Who would know America – the real America – better than the one who colonized and raised him?"

"I'm not saying that it's a foolproof plan or anything."

"'Cause it's not," South Italy pointed out stubbornly.

"But it's the only one I've got," Matthew finished, eyes downcast.

"And if it works? If England agrees with us, if Matvey can convince him?" Russia regarded South Italy carefully. "Then what about you?"

South Italy assessed the two before him for a long moment before finally letting out a long sigh in apparent defeat. "Tell you what, if you can _actually_ manage to get something out of this, you let me know. _Then_ maybe I'll think about 'getting involved' or whatever the fuck it is you want from me. Until then, I have no reason to worry."

Matthew opened his mouth to respond, but was silenced quickly by a sharp jab to his side, courtesy of Russia, who was staring at something just over the Italian's head. Matthew followed his line of sight, startled violet eyes landing on a rather confused looking Spaniard, who stood hesitantly a few feet away from the table, holding two plates of lasagna.

"Er... Lovino?" he asked carefully.

Said Italian whirled around in his chair, fists clenched tight and shoulders tensed, obviously still riled up from his previous spiel.

"What the fuck do _you _w-" he paused mid-sentence, mouth snapping shut and hazel eyes going wide, instantly losing all of his bluster. He turned slightly in his chair, glancing quickly back and forth between Spain and the odd duo seated across from him, realizing his means of escape had finally arrived.

His gaze locked onto one of the plates in the Spaniard's hands. "Is that for me?" he asked quietly, his tone deadly serious.

"Yes?" the other responded hesitantly, as if unsure if he was giving the right answer.

"Perfect," South Italy said, almost to himself, before standing abruptly. "Well," he began, sounding wholly unapologetic as he began to take long steps backwards, quickly widening the distance between himself and the occupants of the table.. "Looks like I can't stay any longer. It's a damn shame, really," he said dryly, halting his backwards movement only once he was directly in line with Spain. "But I wouldn't want to keep good ol' Antonio here waiting."

He grabbed the other's elbow, clearly more than ready to make his escape, and willing to drag Spain along behind him if need be.

Matthew swallowed roughly as he watched South Italy go and before he knew it, he was calling out to him.

"L-Lovino, wait!" He realized his mistake of using the Italian's non-formal at once and instantly began mentally berating himself for it, but the Italian in question didn't seem to have noticed.

"What?" he snapped back over his shoulder, having at least had the courtesy to stop walking, but not quite enough to actually turn back around.

By this point Matthew now had Russia, Spain and South Italy's full attention, and took a moment to compose himself before speaking again.

"I… I'm sorry," he said, "for dragging you and your brother into this whole mess. I should have just talked to England in the first place."

The Italian blinked, gaze falling to his feet. "Yeah, well," he said in an uncharacteristically small voice, "I just hope he can finally prove this damn theory of yours wrong. For all of our sakes," he added, voice he tightened his grasp on Spain's arm, shoulders set as he marched them both away.

"That was very interesting," Russia commented, tone _almost_ humorous. "Not too helpful, but interesting."

When Matthew didn't respond, he pressed on. "This would mean our next 'step of action' is to talk to England, _da_?"

"I guess so." Matthew chewed on his lip unconsciously, mind already racing as he tried to think of how he was ever going to manage to bring up such a dangerous and far-fetched topic in a conversation with _England_. Of all people!

_And this is assuming I can even start up a conversation with him to being with._

Russia shot him a sideways look, and as if reading his thoughts, he asked, "How exactly do you plan to go about this?"

Matthew sighed. "I don't know," he admitted.

Russia hummed, as if he had been fully expecting such a response. "I am rather good at extracting information from people," he offered suddenly, voice entirely too casual.

That, more than anything, made Matthew quick to dismiss the idea. "No, that's okay," he said quickly. "I think…" he took a deep breath, "I think this is something I'm going to have to do."

It was true. Despite how much he _desperately _didn't want to, if anybody was going to approach England about this, it was going to have to be him. Neither of the Italies were really an option anymore, and Russia would probably just end up scarring the poor man for life if he started asking him about his past with America.

_Besides, it was my idea._

_It's my problem._

_Alfred's my brother._

He took another breath, letting it out slowly. "I can do this," he said, not entirely certain if he was assuring Russia or himself.

_Either way, it doesn't really look like I have much of a choice._


	9. Attempt

**AN: Friendly reminder that this fic does in fact contain character death whoops**

* * *

><p>It had already been three days since his chat with Russia and South Italy in the break room, and Matthew was not one single step closer to confronting England like he had promised to do.<p>

His dilemma wasn't for lack of trying, though. His main problem – he was quick to find out – was actually getting the Brit's attention long enough to strike up a conversation with him. That, added to Matthew's constant fear of running into Confederacy keeping him out of the break room meant Matthew found he was even having a difficult time simply _finding _England during their allotted break times.

Had Matthew known what hotel England was staying at and perhaps even his room number, he would have considered trying to speak with him during one of the evenings, but even getting _that _information would actually require asking the nation himself. (Briefly Matthew had considered asking Francis if he knew where England was staying the nights, but quickly remembered there was no way in hell England would have given the Frenchman access to _that _kind of information.)

The only time he knew for certain he would be able to approach England was between breaks, and the only time Matthew would have felt comfortable do so was if he were absolutely certain they were in a strictly Confederacy-free zone, and _that_, to Matthew's dismay, was not a terribly frequent occurrence.

That didn't stop him from trying though.

Matthew had, during several attempts, taken the first steps to confronting England in the halls, (as well as once in the washroom, and later the parking-lot) but in the end had never been able to follow through. The first time England had walked right past Matthew, completely oblivious to the northern nation's presence. The second and third time, Matthew had let his nerves get to him and had bailed before being able to see it through. Part of him had been afraid that he would somehow only manage to mess things up even more if he went through with it, and the other part had feared that Confederacy would walk make his presence known the next moment.

The final time, that was exactly what had happened.

So he had fled. He had run back in the direction he had come without even so much as a backwards glance. What_ else_ could he have done? Pretended nothing was going on? Toughed it out? Simply stood there and faced down his brother's murderous imposter?

Not likely.

And as if all that wasn't already frightening, stressful, and disturbing enough, Matthew could also tell Russia was getting impatient. It wasn't that difficult to see, considering the fact that every time he had tried (and failed) to talk to England, Russia had been standing not too far off, watching diligently. How he even managed to be there every single time, Matthew didn't know and didn't think he _wanted _to know.

All he knew for certain was that Russia's patience was running out, and that meant time was running out.

And then – as if just to top off the pure _ridiculousness_of the whole week – there was Francis.

Francis, who had actually gone through the effort of tracking Matthew down _once again_ a few days later to finish making their plans together.

This, above all else, was probably one of the weirdest things about the entire week. Matthew had fully expected the Frenchman to completely forget that they had ever even spoken in the first place after Russia's interruption.

Francis had not only _remembered _Matthew _and _their conversation together, but had even put in the time and effort to finish it.

Anybody else in the world might have found this to be kind – flattering even. But not Matthew.

No one _ever _paid that much attention to him unless they were doing it for their own personal gain. Especially Francis, who pretty much only ever did _anything _for his own personal gain. Something was definitely up. He just yet wasn't quite sure what.

Either way, it wasn't as if Matthew could back out now. They had already arranged for Francis to pick him and Kumajiro up later that evening, after the conference was finally over. Francis had promised to be there by five thirty, which would only give Matthew a little less than an hour and a half once he got back to the hotel to gather his things together for the extra weekend he would be spending at Francis's.

The last day of the conference had, in fact, just drawn to a close. Germany had dismissed the room, sending them all on their ways, and as Matthew scrambled out the door he spared a quick glance at his wristwatch.

Four o'clock sharp, just like the German had said. Punctual as always. Matthew smiled sadly to himself.

At least _some _things never changed.

As much as he may have wanted to simply flee the premises as fast as possible (as he had been doing every day so far), Matthew knew that wasn't a plausible option anymore. He had already kept Russia waiting on him to fulfil his promise for three days, and Matthew could only imagine the consequences if he never fulfilled it at all. The Russian had been staring him down all meeting long, as if trying to silently communicate with him with glares that were probably supposed to be meaningful but really only succeeded in terrifying him.

Matthew could practically hear the Russian's voice in his head, as if he had been telling him, _this is your last chance._

And he was right. Today was the last day of the meeting. In a few hours, England would be on a plane, flying home, no longer reachable.

Today was his last chance to talk to England.

It truly was now or never.

He needed to find England, and fast.

He fled in to an empty side-hall, back pressed against the wall as he strained to hear the voices of the passing nations around the corner. He listened as they flooded out of the conference hall, picking up random bits of various conversations, but the familiar British accent he was waiting for remained elusive. After several minutes, as most of the voices faded into the break room or further down the hall towards the elevators, Matthew let out the breath he had been holding in a strained sigh.

He snuck back around into the main hall, peering once again through the doors of the conference room, hoping against all reasonable odds that England was just taking a really _really _long time to gather up his notes.

It was, of course, vacant.

He swore silently, eyes scanning the room in one last desperate attempt.

_That's okay. _He tried to calm his racing heart. _There's still time._

He sped back down the hall, pausing by the break room only long enough to sneak in a quick glance through the doorway. There were a few familiar faces scattered about the large room, mostly just nations grabbing their forgotten jackets off chair-backs or filling up one last cup of coffee before beginning the no-doubt tedious journey home.

Yet none of them, to Matthew ever-growing dismay, were England.

_But hey, at least none of the are Confederacy either._

His attempt at optimism was quickly snubbed when he remembered, _Just because I can't seem him, doesn't mean he can't see me._

Moving with renewed purpose Matthew tore himself away from the doorway and continued his search, but after several minutes of haphazardly combing the halls, he began to feel foolish.

_What if he's already gone? _he worried. _I mean, __England probably doesn't want to spend any more time in France than absolutely necessary.__ He's probably already half way to London by now. I should check the parking-lot to see if his car's still here. Hang on...__ I don't even know what his car _looks _like._

Thoughts still preoccupied, he rounded the corner–

– and came face to face with an tensed, hostile looking figure. Giving a small yelp of surprise, Matthew dodged quickly to the left, head ducked down in some feeble attempt at self-protection. The would-be assailant, who Matthew could now see was a certain Belarusian, continued forwards with sharp, measure steps. Thinking he'd go unnoticed, Matthew straightened up slightly, watching the female nation with a wary eye.

And then, without any kind of visual or audible cue, she turned her head and glared at him.

_Directly_ at him.

Matthew's eyes widened in shock. Wordlessly, Belarus stepped past him, her gray-blue eyes holding Matthew's terrified gaze with a penetrating stare. And then she was gone, hurrying down the hall without even so much as a second glance back in the Canadian's direction.

Matthew watched her go with a confused, if slightly petrified stare.

_Okay... _he thought, steadying himself. _That was... weird._

Matthew grimaced, allowing himself another short moment to regather himself, before turning back around in the direction in which he had been headed.

There, standing not ten feet away, waiting patiently before the elevator doors, was England.

Matthew froze in silent astonishment, regarding England with a wary suspicion, as if he expected him to disappear any second.

When nothing of the sort happened, it slowly began to dawn on Matthew that England was in fact standing right there, completely unoccupied, and completely alone. This thought was quickly accompanied by the notion thought that he really needed to start moving, because he knew if he let this opportunity – this unbelievably _perfect_ opportunity – slip by, then that would be the end of that. He would be well and truly screwed.

He started forward – moving with a speed that surprised even himself. Seconds later he was struggling to slow his momentum as he stumbled to a stop beside the other man, mouth already open, words tumbling out.

"E-England! I- I've been looking-" the words came forth in a jumbled mess, leaving Matthew standing there mumbling unattractively as he tried to regain some sense of composure. He fell into silence as the former British Empire turned with a startled glance in his direction, only just noticing his presence.

Matthew took a few deep breaths, trying to quell his racing heart and growing anxiety, because he knew he simply couldn't afford to mess this up. Not this time.

"England," he repeated again in way of a greeting. "Hello."

Even though the man was technically his 'father', having raised Matthew from his childhood in to his late teen years, the two had never really bonded to the point of using personal names with each other; and certainly not to the point of Matthew actually calling him 'dad' like he sometimes did with Francis. Sometimes Matthew still wished he and England had been able to become closer, but it had simply never worked out that way. When he had been young, Matthew had resented England for having taken him away from Francis in the Seven Years War, and by the time he gotten over it, England had also gotten over the excitement of a new colony.

From then on they had always interacted in formal and reserved manners, with England referring to him British North America for many years, and then, eventually, Canada.

And that was only when he could remember who Matthew even was.

The closest memory Matthew had to a 'bonding moment' with the Brit was reading books separately in the older nation's study while sipping tea in a comfortable silence.

Much _unlike _the very awkward silence which currently stretched between them.

England raised an unnaturally large eyebrow. "Hello, um…" he trailed off slowly, giving the Canadian an uncertain look.

"Canada," he offered. "I'm… I'm America's brother." He winced slightly, the name catching in his throat for a moment. Unfortunately, his position as the western superpower's brother was usually the only thing that got others to remember who he was, and it had become almost instinctual for him to identify himself with it.

The questioning expression stayed for another few seconds as England no doubt racked his mind for some memory of his favourite ex-colony's apparent brother. The confusion cleared as the older nation's eyes grew wide. "Oh, yes, of course," he said in a rush, struggling to regain his composure. "Of course. Canada." He repeated the name, then nodded politely. "Hello."

Matthew nodded in return, repeating, "Hello," for lack of anything better to say.

England offered a small smile, his gaze sliding over to the small screen above the elevator doors, checking the current floor, before focusing back on to the timid Canadian in front of him. "So, Canada," he repeated the name once more, as if proving to himself that he did in fact know who he was speaking to. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Um, yes, actually," Matthew began, wracking his mind for the speech he had already prepared and rehearsed dozens of times.

England just watched him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

Matthew gulped, restlessly readjusting his grip on the handle of his briefcase. "I actually wanted to talk to you about A-America."

As if on instinct, the corners of England's mouth pulled down. "America? What of him?"

Just then, the conversation was interrupted by the bright, extremely ill-timed _ping _which announced the elevator's arrival.

"Finally," England sighed, turning his attention away. Without a second glance in the Canadian's direction, he strode forward, onto the elevator.

Eyes widening slightly, Matthew made the spilt-second decision to join the older nation, determined to see the conversation through. He stumbled gracelessly forward, almost bumping in to the Englishman in his haste to avoid the closing doors. Straightening himself awkwardly, he stood shoulder to shoulder with the island nation, watching as England reached forward and pressed the button for the ground floor.

Matthew glanced nervously around, double-checking that they were actually alone. After a moment, he became acutely aware of the look of concern England was giving him.

"Lad, are you quite alright?"

Matthew tried for a confident smile, though he knew it probably looked more like a pained grimace. "Just fine," he lied.

England didn't look convinced, but Matthew pushed ahead without giving him a chance to comment any further. "So, America," he restated, hoping to revive the extinguished conversation.

England looked at him for a long moment before remembering the short discussion from a few moments ago. "Right, you… you wanted to talk about America?" he asked uncertainly.

Matthew nodded his head a little more vigorously than intended, relieved that he wouldn't need to start the entire conversation over again. "Yes. I was, uh, just wondering something… about him. That I was hoping you could, well, answer."

England paused momentarily before speaking. "Very well. What is it about Alfred that you need to discuss with me?"

Matthew cringed slightly at the use of the personal name. It was difficult enough having to associate his brother's formal title with the idea of Confederacy, but having England just casually toss the name 'Alfred' around made Matthew realize just how much the older nation _wasn't_ aware of the current situation.

"Well," Matthew said hesitantly, hoping his unease wasn't too obvious. "Have you, by any chance, noticed something that was maybe, well, _wrong_ with him lately?"

England huffed humorously, rolling his eyes. "_Lord_ knows what's wrong with the lad," he laughed. After a moment, in which Matthew remained completely silent, he turned back to the apprehensive Canadian, a more serious air coming over him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "No, I wouldn't say that I have. Not any more so than usual, at least. Why?"

"Well," Matthew began, dropping his gaze. "It's just… hasn't he seemed a little out of character? A little... _odd_?"

"Again, not that I've noticed," England said slowly, eyes narrowed, obviously unsure as to where exactly this conversation was headed. "Has he seemed so to _you_?"

Matthew shrugged non-committally. "He just seems a little off, you know?" There was a short pause before he decided to add, "Not quite… like himself."

England nodded slowly, as if acquainting himself with the idea. "I suppose he has been a tad…" he frowned slightly, as if searching for the right word, "…_intense _lately." He waved a hand dismissively as he continued. "But that's to be expected, I mean, what with the whole argument he and Cuba had." The hand stilled as he fixed the Canadian with a questioning stare. "Is _that _what you're asking about?"

Matthew nibbled on his bottom lip nervously, unsure how to answer. "Well, yes, but not really."

"Because I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," England cut in easily. "We've all been a little stressed lately, some just more so than others."

"I know, but it's not _just _that."

"Alright," England snapped briskly, clearly tired of dancing around the main point. "What is it then?"

Matthew swallowed roughly, gathering up what little courage he had as he prepared to begin his explanation. "Well, I… I think there may be something worse than that going on."

This, at least, got the Englishman's full attention. "Worse _how_?" he asked.

Matthew let out a long breath, mentally steeling himself. "I think maybe some of us could be in some sort of... danger."

England raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. "Danger?" he questioned. "From _what_?"

Matthew caught England's eye, giving him a meaningful stare from behind thin lenses. "Not _what_," he said, choosing his words extremely carefully.

The small space's tense atmosphere was punctuated by another cheerful sounding _ping_ which announced their arrival. England held Matthew's gaze as the elevator came to a smooth stop, the doors sliding open before them to reveal the empty hall leading directly out to the parking lot.

Something seemed to clicked into place in England's mind as he finally caught meaning of Matthew's words. His expression fell from only slightly puzzled to incredulous. "_America_?" he demanded, voice much loudly than Matthew would have liked. "You think we're in danger of _America_?"

Matthew shook his head forcefully, knowing his was precariously close to losing whatever shred of the Englishman's assent he currently had.

"Maybe," he began, now on the defence. "I mean, I'm not _entirely_ sure, but-"

England shot him one last skeptical look before stepping forwards and out of the elevator, silently but clearly stating that he was ready to dismiss whatever Matthew had to say as utter nonsense.

The Canadian started after him, not quite ready to give up yet. "I just- I think maybe- I think he's hiding something from us."

England kept walking, but slowed his pace somewhat, allowing the other to catch up. "What does _he_ possibly have to hide from _us_?" he shot over his shoulder.

"Well, that's kind of what I'm trying to figure out. That's why I came to you."

England let out a small chuckle. "How am I supposed to know what's going on in that twit's head?" he demanded, the question a sounding serious but rhetorical at the same time. "He's completely mad!" he went on, slandering the American loudly.

Matthew cringed, silently willing the Englishman to lower his voice. Even though the hall they were currently in what appeared to be a completely empty, there were still various offices along the walls, and mostly likely the building's workers were still inside.

Without even thinking, Matthew latched onto the hem of the Brit's sleeve with a tight grip. "I just thought that if anyone would be able to spot any differences – you know, characteristically wise – it would be you," the words tumbled out. "After all, you've known him the longest, right?"

England hummed ambiguously, and Matthew realized that at this point the older man was only just humouring him and his seemingly nonsensical antics. "Yes, well," he began, voice laced with cynical undertones, "Whatever it is the lad's hiding from us must be _awfully important _for him to be acting so very _unlike himself_, as you so kindly put it," he shot back.

Matthew faltered in his step, mouth hanging open uselessly as he struggled for something – _anything _– to say. He followed after the other until they both arrived at the main doors.

Without a moment's hesitation, England pushed them open and marched through, successfully wrenching free of the other's grasp. He continued forwards, either forgetting or not caring enough to hold them open for the younger man behind him.

Matthew dodged through as the heavy glass doors swung shut. "England!" he called out after the other, panicking internally.

This couldn't be over yet. England was supposed to know things! England was supposed to _help him_ figure things out! He hadn't figured anything out yet! All he had succeeded in doing so far was making himself sound completely insane.

England couldn't just _leave_.

"Arthur, wait!" Matthew shouted, racing after the other yet again.

England finally came to full stop, nearly causing the startled Canadian to slam in to him.

Matthew halted his movement just in time, pausing just inches away from him as the island turned around to face him once more.

Sighing exhaustedly, England reached up to rub at his eyes. "Lad, listen," he began in an extremely parental sounding voice, one which instantly reminded Matthew of the way the former Empire used to speak to the real Alfred when trying to explain to him that ghosts weren't real and it would silly to think otherwise.

"I get that you're a little worked up about everything that's going on right now. We all are," England said, dropping his hand to fold both arms guardedly across his chest as he fixed Matthew with a condescending glare. "But just because America's problems are dragging all of us down with him, it doesn't mean we can just sit around all day thinking up conspiracy theories about him, understand?"

Matthew shook his head, knowing he was too deep in to back down now. "That's not what I'm doing!" he protested earnestly.

England shook his head, much like Matthew had moments ago, only this time he did it with a clear level of sobriety. "I'm sorry, but I really don't have time for this any longer." He gave Matthew a hard look. "I think perhaps you should go home and rest for a while."

That was all England would give in way of a goodbye.

From there, Matthew there was powerless to stop him as the older man turned stiffly and began to walk away. He watched in silent dismay as England made his way across the parking lot and entered his car. The Brit wasted no time to driving off, careful to keep his gaze glued straight ahead as he drove passed the Canadian on his way back on to the main road.

Matthew continued to stand frozen and alone in the parking lot even after England has left, staring blankly ahead as the wind began to pick up around him. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, sensing that he had completely failed in his task, while England's final words replayed in his head.

_I think perhaps you should go home and rest for a while._

"I can't…" he whispered into the wind, voice brimming with dismay. "I still have to go to Francis' house after this."

He let his head drop like a dead weight, bowing in defeat.

xXx

He froze, his grasp right around the office doorknob, the door was hanging open the smallest of fractions, just enough to hear the opening of elevator doors accompanied by the distant sound of familiar voices from somewhere in the hall beyond.

He paused, unsure – an emotion he rarely if ever experienced – before pulling the door back just slightly.

"_America?"_

The voice rang loud through the hall's still air, the name striking up a clawing, tearing, _burning_ sense of attachment.

He grinned.

That was England's voice.

_What's that old bastard doing talking about little ol' me? _He wondered, a giddy sort of pride swelling up within his chest.

_Me._

His grin widened.

_That's right. Me. That's _my _name. _I'm _America, _I'm _Alfred,_ _not you, not you, me, I am-_

England spoke again, louder this time, closer.

"You think we're in danger of _him_?"

The grin cracked, falling from his face to be quickly replaced instead with a deep scowl, tilting his head and straining to hear the rest of the conversation.

A second voice accompanied the first, speaking in lower, hushed tones.

"…he's hiding something from us."

The American's teeth gritted harshly against each other while thoughts of a cold, damp cellar and a lone, broken figure flashed before his eyes. A wonderful, brilliant, _awful_ secret he had strived to keep hidden for so, so long.

_So they know, do they?_

This realization echoed in his mind. The corners of his lips tilted upwards in a rapidly growing grin as a volatile glee began to spread through him. _If they know, then there's no need to hide here. _His vice-like grip on the doorknob relented ever so slightly, the door inching forwards. _I should go compliment them on their wonderful discovery. __Now what would be a better congratulation? A broken neck? Maybe some missing eyes?_

"What does _he_ possibly have to hide from _us_?"

He stilled again, his grin wilting. He could hear the footsteps now, nearing the door he was hidden behind. He couldn't decide if the voice that had spoken was serious about the claim to ignorance. _What do I have to hide? Heh… everything, that's what. Me. Him. No, me. Me, there's only me. There's no him. He's nobody, he's nothing nothing nothing-_

He stifled the laughter that threatened to make itself known, his thoughts silencing as a sudden air of clarity occupied his mind. _But do they _know_? Do they?_

The voice that spoke next was undecipherable at first, the words jumbled together in a light, breathy, Canadian accent. Leaning in, the American managed to catch the last, unobtrusive claim.

"That's why I came to you."

The footsteps passed, now directly outside the door. He quelled the urge to jump out from behind the door and _hurt_ and _maim_ and _kill_ in favour of gathering more information from where he hide.

That last sentence seemed to suggest two things to him. First, that his useless excuse for a 'brother' was indeed trying to dig up some information on his dear southern neighbor. And secondly, that the old English bastard seemed to be the one with said information.

"I just thought that if anyone would be able to spot any differences-" here the words once again lowered to a mumble before the voice rose again in volume "-it would be you. After all, you've known him the longest, right?"

His grin was back in full force, eyes glinting dangerously behind the thin lenses of his glasses.

The last sentence – or at least the fraction of it he had caught – confirmed it for him. They knew. They _knew. _They had finally, _finally_ figured it out.

He couldn't help the burst of exhilaration that shot through him.

It looked like things were finally going to get exciting around here again.

"Yes, well, whatever it is the lad's hiding from us must be awfully important for…" and then the voice faded into incomprehensible humming.

A few moments later, the American caught the sound of the main doors opening and closing, an obvious sign that the pair had left the building.

But he was already on the move, leaving the room he had been occupying and heading back towards the main part of the building. He could feel a red, hot, furious anger burning somewhere in the back of his mind – an anger at being found out, at having his ruse uncovered – but he wouldn't let it corrupt his growing elation.

They had found out, and so he was permitted to do _whatever_ he wanted now, no longer bound by the restraints of his façade.

That was good wasn't it?

That could be fun.

He would _make it_ fun.

_So they think they've caught me huh? _England, and Canada, and probably that communist bastard Russia and the two cowardly Italies, if their recent interactions were anything to go by.

His face lit up as he realized suddenly that this really _could _be fun!

_This will be great! _He laughed. _Even better than Cuba. So much pain just waiting to be caused. So much hope just waiting to be crushed. So many nations just waiting to be destroyed._

_So many lives just _begging _to be extinguished._

He wrenched the doors to the conference hall open, the empty room long since deserted. Grabbing the bag from his abandoned spot, he stood with a wide, crooked smile, contemplating his options.

_Well, why not start with the closest nation? The one who's _apparently_ known the longest._ A low chuckle floated through the room. _That should be fun._

_Yes, that's exactly who I'll start with._

_I hope England likes surprises._


	10. Visit

**AN: Matthew's such a dweeb  
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><p>Arthur leaned back in his lounge chair, relishing in the warm glow of sunlight which streamed in from the large windows of his parlour. It was already early evening, and the sun would be setting soon. Arthur was determined to enjoy it while he could.<p>

He sighed comfortably, rolling and stretching his shoulders and neck in attempt to relieve some of the tension that had built up there during the nightmarish meeting he had just come home from in France.

Arthur shuddered, thinking of how horrible the conference had been. As usual, the nations got little to nothing done whenever they were together, choosing instead to fight and bicker about rivalries, or hold miniature competitions to see who interrupt Germany by blowing their nose the loudest before he finally realized. Arthur could only roll his eyes, repulsed.

This latest conference had been made all the worse simply by having been held in France. Again.

He shuddered again.

Realizing that it was useless to still be stressing himself over it, Arthur brushed away all thoughts concerning the conference. He reached across his lap, snatching his cup and saucer from the table beside him, and took a few small sips of the brew.

Now was his time to relax, he reminded himself. He didn't get opportunities like this often, as he was usually out running errands, stuck inside an office all day filling out paperwork, or at Parliament with his leaders, discussing and debating issue after issue until his throat was raw. Now was not one of those times. Now was time for him to finally kick back and enjoy-

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Arthur ground out, setting the cup back down on the table.

He leaned over one arm of his chair without getting up, gazing down the long entryway of his house towards the main doors.

He glared at them accusingly, waiting.

The doorbell rang twice more before whoever it was gave up in favour of the heavy brass knocker, which was only about ten times more annoying.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," Arthur grumbled to himself, finally starting across the room.

Even in the hall, the knocking continued, loud and persistent. It served only to anger him even more.

_Why don't you knock a few more times, _Arthur mocked internally. _That'll _definitely_ make me get there faster._

He finally reached the door, irriation clear on his face as he wrenched it open with a humph.

_This had better be good._

It creaked loudly on its rusted hinges, swinging open inwards. Whoever it was on the other side helped it along with a strong push, nearly causing it to slam into Arthur. He stumbled a bit as he sidestepped the offending door, only looking up just in time to catch a flash of golden hair, sky blue eyes, and a brilliant smile.

His visitor stepped over the threshold and into the house before Arthur could even get a word out. Arthur regained his balance quickly, glaring at the other man with a mix of confusion and irritation.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here, Alfred?"

xXx

Lovino sagged in his chair with a sigh, closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest.

_These chairs are like sitting on fucking bricks._ He squirmed a bit in attempt to get more comfortable, but it was to no avail. _You would think first-class seats on a government aircraft would be a little nicer than this, but no, apparently we can't afford to spend money upgrading such 'trivial' little things._

His hands twitched in his lap, itching tp unbuckle the seatbelt so he could slouch more. He would have had no problem with doing so if not for the pesky stewardess who had gotten up in his face the last time.

_Sir_, she had said, lips pursed distastefully. _I'm going to have to ask you to put your seatbelt back on. It's simply too unsafe to be without it while we're in the air._

_Ma'am, _he had been tempted to snap right back. _I'm going to have to ask you to mind your own fucking business. It's simply too annoying to have to listen to you while we're in the air._

He would have said it too, if it hadn't been for the fact that his brother was sitting directly beside him. Feliciano always got upset when Lovino got mad at random civilians, and the _last _thing Lovino wanted to deal with right now was a snotty-nosed, teary-eyed little brother.

So he had kept his thoughts to himself and done as he had been told.

But that sure as hell didn't mean he was happy about.

Lovino paused in his thoughts, realizing a moment late too that something had just been said to him.

"What?" he asked, turning to face his brother, who was curled up on the seat next to him.

"Do you think we should warn them?" Feliciano asked, head ducked slightly and voice lowered so that only Lovino could hear him.

Lovino frowned, now wishing he had heard the first part of the conversation. "Warn who?"

"You know," Feliciano began, nibbling on his bottom lip hesitantly. "Ludwig and Antonio… and maybe Mister Austria and Miss Hungary too."

"_Fratello_, I literally have no idea what you're talking about. Warn them about _what?_" he asked.

"About what's going on with America," Feliciano whispered, glancing over his shoulder anxiously as he spoke, as if he somehow expected someone to be listening in on them. "About what Canada and Mister Russia said."

Lovino scowled at the mere mention of the subject. "Of course not!" he hissed back. "Why would you even ask such a stupid fucking question?"

"I just thought that maybe we could at least warn them that they might be in danger," Feliciano admitted hesitantly.

Lovino shook his head. "Feli, nobody's in danger," he said, trying to sound reassuring. When Feliciano just continued to look frightened and uncertain, Lovino pressed on.

"If something had seriously happened to America -the real America- how come no one ever noticed anything until now? How come _he _never said anything himself? Don't you think," he continued, leaning in closer, "that if something that big had really happened to him, America would have had the sense to tell the rest of the world that he had _split the fuck in half_?"

Feliciano gave the small, trembling shake of his head. "What if he never got the chance to?"

"Oh, for fuck's fucking sake! Now you're just being paranoid!" Lovino all but shouted, earning him several concerned looks from the passing stewardess and various other passengers.

"If that's what you really think then why are _you _still worried about it?" Feliciano prodded him.

Lovino huffed, slapping away the offending hand. "I am _not _worried."

"Don't lie to me, " Feliciano frowned, looking hurt. "I can feel it," he reminded his brother.

"Just shut up already, would you?" Lovino hissed, but his words had lost their vehemence.

Feliciano gave a huff and turned away as well, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout.

_Finally,_ Lovino thought, settling back in silence for the rest of the flight home.

His small victory was regrettably short-lived, as only a few moments later, Feliciano turned back toward his brother yet again.

"Is it because of what Russia said?" he asked delicately, sounding almost sympathetic.

Lovino didn't want his brother's sympathy. It reminded him too much of pity - something he didn't want from anyone. He turned back, anger flaring up once again. "What?"

"He told us not to tell anyone else. Is that why you don't want to? Are you scared of… of what Russia will do?"

"No!" Lovino denied. "Of course not. I couldn't care less about a single thing coming out of that bastard's mouth. The only reason I don't want to 'warn' anybody about this shit is because I don't want to look like a complete _moron _when we find out that _nothing's going on_," he pressed, stressing his words and waving his hands around for emphasis.

"But what if something _is _going on?" Feliciano repeated his earlier question.

"So what?" Lovino demanded, disconcerted. "If this shit _is_ actually going on – and it's not – then we have no business getting involved in it. It has _absolutely nothing_ to do with us. The _only _reason we would be in any danger whatsoever is if we _got ourselves_ involved, like _you're_ currently trying to do!"

Feliciano was silent for a long moment following this statement, and Lovino almost began to believe it was because he had finally gotten through to his brother. But after a long moment of indecisive fidgeting, the younger of the two glanced back up, looking determined.

"I know you don't…" he trailed off, deterred for only a moment, before starting again. "I just think… well, maybe it actually _does _have something to do with us."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? How so?" he asked, knowing that whatever it was his brother was about to say next had obviously been on his mind for a long time, if the overly-cautious way he was trying to bring it up was anything to go by.

Feliciano took a deep breath. "Well, remember when Canada came to talk to us that first time?"

"Yeah, so?"

"He came to us because we're one of the only countries with two representatives," he explained, wringing his hands together. "I mean, it makes sense, right? He wanted to know about opposite representatives for the same nation, so he asked us… because we _are_ opposite representatives for the same nation."

"I got it, thanks. Get to the point?"

"If what Canada was saying is true… then America is the North and this new America is the South, right?"

"Okay…" Lovino said slowly, eyeing his brother somewhat suspiciously. He wasn't quite sure he liked where this train of thought was going.

Feliciano continued. "And in Italy, _I'm_ the North and _you're_ the South, which kind of makes us the same as-"

"Don't," Lovino cut in suddenly, voice cold and unwavering. "Don't you _dare_ compare _me _to that sick bastard," he snarled through clenched teeth, his previous resolve against America's southern half's existence pushed aside.

Feliciano shrank back, looking apologetic. "_No, fratello, non ero_-"

"Yes, you were," Lovino interjected again. "He and I are _nothing _alike, so just... just stop, okay?" He turned away to stare across the aisle and out of the aircraft's window, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

"I just don't want anybody else to get hurt," Feliciano tried, sounding hurt by his brother's sudden coldness toward him.

When Lovino gave no response, Feliciano knew the conversation was clearly over. Reluctantly, he followed his brother's example, turning away solemnly and settling in for the rest of the long flight ahead, the heavy atmosphere now stretching between the two brothers weighing down on his thin shoulders.

xXx

Natalya stared at the reflection the mirror before her, the expression imitated in its surface as blank as the cold blue eyes within them.

It was a familiar room, despite it not being in her house. It was the room she and her sister had shared while living with their beloved brother during their Soviet days, and it was now used as a guest room for the two when they visited him.

This time, however, was different. It felt nothing like the warm welcome the two sister usually received when they stayed over. The moment they had gotten into the house, Ivan had marched up the stairs without a word, leaving them both behind, and had been shut away in his office ever since.

Natalya sighed longingly, knowing no one else would hear her in the empty room. She wondered why her brother never let her into the office. She had seen Katyusha let in on several occasions, such as when he brought up hot drinks or snacks to Ivan, and yet the same excuses had never worked for her.

_Am I really so horrible to spend time alone with? _she pondered, tilting her head a fraction to the side and watching intently as the young woman in the mirror repeated the action. She studied the face reflected before her, pale and smooth-looking, with sharp cheekbones and large, round eyes.

In was strange, the way beauty was measured in this world. Natalya knew, physically, she was considered what most would call _pretty_ – some even _beautiful._

But only physically.

Natalya knew she wasn't really beautiful. Not in the true sense. Personality wise, she may have even been hideous. She was a cold-hearted person of nature, with a cruel and occasionally even deadly temper. She loved only very few people.

One person, in particular.

And yet, despite herr best effort to gain his undivided attention, it almost always seemed like Ivan couldn't even be bothered to spare her a passing glance. It was this sort of treatment she had contented herself with for decades - centuries, even.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a couple of useless, feeble Italians and a pathetic, foolish Canadian sprang into Ivan's circle of significant nations while Natalya was left, once again, on the outside. Apparently, her brother would much rather run off to torment these miserable countries and have conspicuous, harshly whispered conversations with them between meetings than even spend a moment with her.

Natalya's thin hands clenched into tight fists, long nails digging into the skin of her palms. It was infuriating, being ignored _yet again_ by the one person she so desperately wanted to please, while Canada and the Italies - of all people - had his full attention without even trying.

Natalya wasn't oblivious. She knew _something_ was obviously going on between the four of them. Something important. Something which had everything to do with a certain American, if the less-than-subtle glances the three smaller nations had all been shooting his way and the way the Canadian had been actively avoiding him for months were anything to go by.

In an odd way, it made sense. Ivan was, after all, interested in keeping tabs on America. Natalya had always known that.

The only thing she was truly uncertain of was what _exactly _it was that had suddenly spiked her brother's interest. Things had been relatively quiet - and boring, if she was being honest - between Russia and the western superpower for decades.

Then suddenly, they weren't.

However, the reality of the situation was that it didn't matter to Natalya _who _or _what _had suddenly become so important to her brother. Simply the fact that it was occupying time which would have been much better spent with _her _was enough to warrant her attention as well.

The fact that whatever was going on between the American, the Canadian, and the Italians had been deemed somehow important enough to get involved with by her brother meant one thing and one thing only to Natalya.

It was time to do the same.

Abruptly, she stood, casting her reflection one last glance and she slid away, her long dress brushing against her legs as she moved. She reached the door, wrenching it open and stepping out into the hall, immediately taking off in the direction of Ivan's study.

Whether he wanted to or not, Natalya and her brother were about to have a little chat.

xXx

Matthew leaned heavily against his seat-back, arm propped up on the small ledge protruding from the interior side of the car door. His eyes flickered back and forth as the busy scenery of London's out-skirting rural area rushed past outside the window.

He wasn't unaware of the oddness of that - being in London, when he was supposed to be spending time with Francis. Which, he previously would have assumed, meant at least being in _France_.

But _no_. Apparently, Francis's definition of spending so-called 'quality time' with his former colony involved driving for several hours in the small, enclosed space of his car with a disgruntled polar bear and a now equally disgruntled Canadian all the way to London. _London_, of all places.

Not Paris, Not Bordeaux. Not any other wonderful French city in which Matthew would much rather be spending his evening.

Matthew grumbled unhappily to himself, his hand unconsciously knotting through the fur of the restless bear in his lap. He struggled to resist the urge to smack his head against the window's cold glass, or perhaps suffocate himself in Kumajiro's fur.

_What a pleasant way to go, _he thought dryly.

Still, it was true. Death by polar bear fur would have been a much preferable ending when compared to the indescribable suffering he was about to undergo, courtesy of Francis.

No, it was not a simple, peaceful evening spent at Francis's house, like Matthew had hoped it would be.

Instead, they were visiting England.

Or more accurately, Matthew thought, they breaking into his house without permission so that Francis could annoy the ever-loving hell out of the Brit, complain about his food, and make an all-around mess of his house.

And Matthew was the excuse to do so

That's all he was. An excuse. A reason for Francis to offer as to why he was there when England would no-doubt ask. That's why he had been invited over and dragged along on their current impromptu adventure.

_A damn excuse._

And not even a very good one, at that. Francis definitely must have been running out of so-called 'good reasons' to stalk the Englishman home if 'much missed quality family time' – as he had said to Matthew – was what he had resorted to now.

Matthew had known _something _was up, but after having spent the better part of the afternoon at Francis's home, he had made the mistake of getting his hopes up that perhaps he had just been paranoid. Francis had helped unpack his things for the weekend while chatting away about anything and everything, with Matthew's side of the conversation actually being heard for once. Then they cooked a nice, simple dinner together and even enjoyed it together on the back patio.

It was at this point that Matthew had begun to think that maybe Francis really_ did_ just want to spend time together, no ulterior motives involved.

Then, without warning, Francis had whisked Matthew and his bear outside and in to the car, announcing out of nowhere, "Do you know what I _just _thought of? We should pay England a visit! Wouldn't that be a wonderful idea?" and had Matthew buckled down and locked on before he could even get a word out.

Which, had Francis actually let him speak, would have been, a very irrefutable _no_.

Because that sounded like just about _the worst idea _Matthew had _ever_ heard.

There wasn't a single good reason Matthew could possibly think of to visit England any time soon. The Brit probably still thought he was completely insane after the Canadian's sensational fail at asking him about Confederacy. It was embarrassing to even_ think_ about, and Matthew knew there was next to no way he would be able to face England_ this_ soon again without it being one of the most uncomfortable, and possible traumatizing, experience of his life.

Matthew sighed as Kumajiro shifted once again in his lap, letting out a low whine.

"I know, Kuma," Matthew mumbled low enough so Francis wouldn't hear. "This sucks, doesn't it?"

Tired of sulking to himself, Matthew turned away from the window. He looked to the driver's seat, where the Francis sat, staring ahead and smiling lazily to himself, most likely thinking about all the wonderful way he would torture England once they arrived at his house.

"Francis?" Matthew asked, hoping his small voice would break through that barrier of thoughts. When the older man didn't so much as glance in his direction, Matthew sighed heavily before trying again, louder this time. "Francis?"

"Hmm?" Francis glanced around, as if suddenly just realizing there was another person in the car. "What is it, _mon cher_?" he asked, tearing his eyes away from the road for a moment to shoot a sideways glance at Matthew.

Matthew sighed again. "Why exactly are we doing this again?" he asked bluntly. "You know England's only going to get mad at us for this."

Francis ignored Matthew's last statement in favour of the earlier question. "Surely it's obvious! The three of us need _du temps avec la famille_!"

Matthew shook his head. "Francis, I _really_ don't think we need family time together," he said dubiously. "We saw him just today. Less than five hours ago, in fact."

"Nonsense!" Francis waved a hand dismissively, swerving the wheel recklessly with the other. "It's _always _a good time for family time!"

Matthew was skeptical on that one, but decided not to comment. Instead, he moved on to another matter that had been pressing on his mind since Francis had first announced their impromptu adventure.

"You _at least_ told him we were coming, right?"

At this, Francis let out a sharp laugh. "Of course not!"

Matthew blinked, expression stunned. "What?"

"It would have ruined the surprise!" Francis continued, untroubled.

"It's a _surprise_?"

Francis grinned. "Well, obviously. England would never answer the door if he knew _I _was the one behind it. That's why I never tell him when I have plans to visit," he justified. "It's brilliant, non?"

"I wouldn't necessarily call it 'brilliant'" Matthew muttered under his breath, wondering how he could have ever believed – if even for only a moment – that Francis didn't have some kind of crazy, stupid, self-benefiting plan.

Francis, surprisingly enough, seemed to have caught Matthew's last words. He grin fell, replaced instead with a pout. "Well, _fine_," he said, voice laced with mock hurt. "If it truly bothers you so much, we'll call him now and tell him we're on our way."

He struggled for a moment to retrieve his phone from his pocket with only one hand, steering with the other. Pulling it out, he tossed the hand-held device to Matthew, who caught it unsteadily, fumbling with it for a second. The sudden movement disturbed Kumajiro, who gave a low grumble before jumping down from his owner's lap and shambling off towards the back of the car.

Matthew watched him go for a moment, wondering vaguely if the bear was feeling alright, before turning back to the phone in his hands. Slowly, he scrolled though the list of contacts until he found one titled _Les sourcils_ – which he presumed to be England's – and selected call. He brought the phone to his ear, biting his lip as he waited for England to answer.

It rang once, echoing back through the small speaker. Then twice. Then a third time. Matthew frowned slightly.

"What's he saying?" came the eager question.

"Nothing," Matthew said. "He's not picking up."

Francis hummed thoughtfully. "Strange."

Matthew nodded in silent agreement. It definitely was strange. Usually England always found a way to pick up on the first or second ring, as ridiculously punctual as he was. He didn't get much time to dwell on these thoughts, as he suddenly became aware of a voice speaking over the line.

"Hello, you've reached my personal number. Please leave a message."

The voice-mail was as short and as straightforward as ever, leaving Matthew completely unprepared for the soft _beep_ which indicated he was now being recorded. It was only at that moment that the Canadian realized that he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Panicking internally, he began to stutter intelligibly. "Oh, he didn't… oh." Matthew paused, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a long moment before he managed to gather his thoughts together long enough to form the appropriate words.

"Hello, England. It's me– I mean, um, it's Matthew Williams. Canada. Your colo- your ex-colony. The, uh, second biggest country on the planet." He paused again, wondering if that would be enough to give the island nation at least an inkling as to who he was. "So, um… I'm the in the car with Francis right now…" He glanced across to the Frenchman in question, who was watched him out of the corner of his eye amusedly.

Matthew looked away before continuing, "…and, well, we're on our way over… to your place," he added hastily. "I'm sorry for not having confirmed with you earlier. We just – It was Francis' idea. Anyway, we'll probably be there in…" he glanced to Francis again, who – sensing the meaning behind the Canadian's stare – mouthed back 'ten'. Matthew nodded in thanks. "…ten or so minutes," he translated in to the phone.

Looking down then, Matthew noticed Kumajiro once again by his feet, pawing lightly at his pant leg. The bear gave a small whine as Matthew nudged him away with his foot. "So, um, I hope you get this message and… again, I'm really sorry… about everything." Matthew pulled away from the phone, preparing to end the call.

Right before he could, Francis leaned across the space between them, calling out "_Nous t'aimons, Angleterre_!"

Matthew hung up, flinching away from the loud voice.

Francis, for his part, just laughed again, leaning back in to his chair. "Mathieu," he said between laughs, "You really need to work on your social skills." He shook his head in pretend disbelief. "That was quite possibly the most painful-sounding thing I've ever had the displeasure of hearing."

Matthew suppressed a small smile, knowing Francis meant the jab in good humour, despite likely being completely right. Before he could retort, movement at his feet caught his attention once again. He glanced down to see Kumajiro staring back up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Kuma, what are you doing?" Matthew finally asked, relenting to his curiosity about the bear's strange behaviour.

"Bad," came the short response.

From his position behind the wheel, Francis let out a small noise of surprise. "The bear talks?"

Matthew ignored this, staring back at Kumajiro anxiously. "What?"

Kumajiro growled, low and pained-sounding. "Bad," he repeated, pawing once more at Matthew's leg.

"What's bad?" Matthew asked, now genuinely concerned. He leaned down in his seat, closer to the bear. "Are you feeling okay?"

Kumajiro nodded, then swiftly shook his head no. When Matthew blinked, getting ready to form another "What?" the bear elaborated. "Me, yes. Him, no."

"Has it always talked?" Francis asked blatantly, clearly still stuck on his newest revelation.

Matthew ignored this too. "Him?" He directed the question at the bear.

Kumajiro nodded, before picking up a small paw and placing it lightly on the phone still grasped in Matthew's hand.

Matthew sat back, startled, looking at the device in his hands as understanding flooded though him. Kumajiro took advantage of this, jumping up onto the Canadian's lap and turning to stare out the front wind-shield intently.

"Go," he demanded urgently. "Help."

Matthew and Francis shared a quick glance across the car, the latter of the two looking thoroughly confused.

"What's he going on about?" Francis asked.

"Er... he thinks there's something wrong," Matthew tried to explain.

Francis frowned, a rarely seen air of seriousness coming over him. "Wrong?"

Matthew looked away, fidgeting nervously beneath the weight of the small bear on his lap. "Yeah, I guess he's always kind of been able to… _sense_ things like that."

"Like _what_ exactly?" came the careful question.

Matthew shook his head. "Never mind, I'll explain when we get there."

Francis opened his mouth to speak again, but Kumajiro interrupted with a forceful "Go! Help!"

Francis glanced between the bear and his owner one last time before turning his gaze back to the road. "Very well," he said determinedly, setting his shoulders and pressing down harder on the gas pedal beneath his foot.

This continued on for another few minutes, the landscape rapidly speeding by. The houses soon became larger and more extravagant, secluded by tall metal gates which fenced enormous, unnaturally well-kept properties. Francis seemed to know exactly where he was going, and didn't so much as slow down until they were already pulling up the long cobblestone driveway which led up to England's mansion.

Matthew leaned over the now extremely agitated polar bear on his lap, ducking his head to view the impressive house at the end of the driveway.

Instantly, the Canadian knew that something was wrong. The whole place just seemed… _off_. It was darker looking than he had last remembered seeing it; dingy and faded, as if surrounded by a cloud of gloom.

The car finally came to a stop, and Matthew was quick to open his door.

Kumajiro leaped out. "Go! Help! Go! Help!" he roared.

Matthew followed the bear's lead, stepping out into the cool evening's air and closing the door behind him. He heard Francis do the same on the opposite side of the car, and they walked around their respective sides simultaneously, meeting together at the front. Kumajiro was there a second later, still growling, but Matthew wasn't listening anymore.

Something else had captured his attention.

Getting his first good look at the building since they had arrived, Matthew could see that what he had first mistaken for an air of gloom was something else altogether.

It wasn't a cloud.

It was smoke.

Matthew glanced across to Francis uncertainly, beginning to panic. Francis had noticed the smoke as well, and was looking back at Matthew in much the same way.

"Maybe…. Maybe he's trying to cook again?" Francis tried for a light-hearted tone, but Matthew could hear the tight, constrained alarm lacing his voice.

As if on cue, a large window on the mansion's top floor shattered, glass bursting as red and orange flames shot outwards, instantly licking their way up the side of the wall. Dense, black smoke followed, billowing from the broken window and in to the evening sky.

Both nations froze, staring at the scene in silent shock until a roar from the bear at their feet snapped their thoughts back to the present.

"Inside! Still inside! Still inside!" Kumajiro turned, seeming to finally give up on his hopeless owner as he began to race towards the entrance himself.

Matthew, still too stunned to do much else, watched as a blur of movement to his left indicated Francis sprinting forwards and towards the rapidly growing fire as well.

Without a second thought, Matthew followed.


	11. Break (Part I)

**AN: My sister wrote like 85% of this chapter so  
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><p>Arthur stumbled into the sitting room, feet carrying him forwards a few paces before staggering to a stop. He blinked rapidly, trying to quell the rising panic in his chest as he struggled to make sense of the events of the past few minutes. The aching of his bruised jaw and the throbbing of his head made it a little difficult to ignore his current situation.<p>

Alfred was attacking him.

_What the bloody fucking hell is going on?_ Arthur thought, casting his gaze desperately around the room without even knowing what he was searching for. _This can't be happening, right? Alfred isn't _really _attacking me. This has to be all just some kind of joke. _He glanced back to the hall entrance, hoping the _normal_ Alfred would appear the corner, a sheepish smile on his face and an apologetic laugh escaping from his lips.

Arthur held his breath as shadowy figure emerged from the hall moments later, the silhouette pausing briefly in the doorway, but the moment the American's gaze swept over to him, they lit up with delight, like a starved hunter eager for his next kill. That look alone, glinting behind sharp, thin glasses, was enough to set frantic alarm bells off in Arthur's mind. Although Arthur loathed to admit it, he could feel fear beginning to arise within him.

That was not to say that he and Alfred hadn't had their struggles and fights in the past. Arthur could clearly remember exchanging a few blows with the younger nation throughout their history together, but it had always been evident that Alfred had been curbing his strength. The western superpower had never purposefully gone out of his way to do serious damage. He was conscious of his power and tired to set limits for it.

There was no hint of that limitation now.

Arthur took a few steps back as Alfred strode forcefully into the room, eyes locked onto his retreating movements.

_This isn't happening. _Arthur unconsciously squirmed beneath the hungry gaze, glancing about in search of the nearest exit.

_This is a nightmare, isn't it?_ There was the hall behind Alfred from which they had both come through, the tall arched doorway leading in to the kitchen just to Alfred's left, and a large twisting staircase leading upwards in the room's far right corner.

_A horrible, twisted nightmare...? _Reaching any of them, Arthur noted with a sense of dread, would require moving _towards _Alfred rather than away from him, which something he decidedly did _not _want to do.

He swallowed nervously, still weighing his options when suddenly, without warning, Alfred took the last few steps towards him at a full sprint. The pure speed of the movement successfully caught Arthur off guard – if only for a split second. That second was enough to allow rough hands to tangle in to his hair, jerking him back in place as he tried to dodge away.

_Bloody fuck, no–_

Arthur gave a pained gasp, the joints in his neck cracking loudly as his head was whipped to the side before he felt himself being tossed face-first into a nearby bookshelf. He felt the corner of one of the shelves collide with his forehead, splitting the skin just above his right eye.

Alfred released his hold on the Englishman's hair, and was suddenly directly behind him, using his arms to trap Arthur against the shelf from either side.

"I mean, I at least expected this to be a _little bit _of a challenge," Alfred sighed. "Guess I thought wrong, huh?"

_A challenge?_ Arthur found himself thinking disjointedly, head aching from all its recent abuse. _He's completely lost it._

It was then that something directly above the dispassionate nation caught the Brit's eye, glinting silver in the low light of the setting sun outside. Without a second thought, Arthur reached up and wrenched a long, elegant sword from the bookshelf's mantelpiece where it had been hung as decoration. He spun around, lashing out with the sword expertly in one swift motion.

Alfred dropped his arms, stepping back and ducking to avoid the swipe of the blade, but regained his balance quickly.

"A _toy_ sword," he remarked, crossing his arms over his chest as if only to prove just how entirely unconcerned he was. "That's cute."

Arthur growled, slashing out again. It was more of a warning than an attempt to cause harm. "Stay back!" he demanded. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but I _will_ use this if I have to!" he threatened, all the while telling himself the tremble in his voice was from pain and not any fear that he may or may not have been feeling at the moment.

"Couldn't think of a more cliché line, could you?" Alfred laughed, not even bothering to move out of the way this time as Arthur made another attempt at him with the sword.

Instead, he did something that took Arthur completely by surprise. He simply reached out and fisted a hand around the edge of the blade. Arthur stumbled in shock as Alfred, unperturbed, twisted the sword downwards and with a single jerk of his arm.

Arthur released his grip on the hilt a moment too late, chocking down a cry as his wrist gave a violent _snap_ at the unexpected twisting motion. He stumbled back as Alfred tossed the blade carelessly over his shoulder and made another sudden lunge for the Englishman.

The larger nation snatched him by the front his shirt, tugging him forwards until they were face to face.

"Good try, old man," he sneered.

Arthur was frozen beneath that icy stare. His pain and discomfort was forgotten only for a single moment as chilling fear shot through him.

Fear of those eyes. Fear of the obvious madness which shone from within them.

Fear of what they might do to him.

He wasn't given the chance to fear much else, as Alfred – seeming to have grown tired of their staring contest – spun them around abruptly, using the momentum it gave him to lift Arthur off the ground and hurl him backwards across the room. His graceless flight was cut short as he slammed against the base of the wide staircase railing. The wood cracked with the force of the impact, giving way as he toppled over them to land in a heap on the bottom steps.

The back of his head came down with a _thud_ against the hard wooden surface of the stairs, the solid steps digging uncomfortably into his back. Arthur laid there for a moment, eyes clenched tightly shut as he tried to ignore the overwhelming influx of pain. His head and wrist throbbed agonizingly with each loud pulse of his heart, the sound of blood rushing in his ears almost eclipsed the laboured panting of his own breath.

_This is very bad,_ he thought offhandedly, mind slightly addled by the culmination of pain and shock. _Very, very bad._

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, the loud strides echoing ominously in the sudden silence of the house.

"It's like you're not even trying," Alfred mocked, the sound of sinful glee shadowed by bitter disappointment. "I guess I'll just have to do something about that lack of enthusiasm, won't I?"

Arthur's eyes snapped open, a surge of adrenaline suddenly coursing through him. His uninjured arm was already struggling to push his aching body up off the stairs, fight or flight instincts having taken over – and screaming _flight _quite clearly. The abrupt movement dimmed his vision momentarily, spots dancing in front of his eyes as the throbbing in his head intensifying tenfold. Desperately ignoring this, Arthur turned upwards, scrambling up the wooden stairs on his hands and knees.

From behind him, Arthur heard Alfred come to a stop and the bottom of the staircase, his intimidating shadow suddenly looming over the wide steps and Arthur's struggling form. He continued forward frantically, using his elbow and forearm in place of his useless hand.

Rapturous laughter echoed out from directly behind him, and Arthur could see Alfred's shadow shift slightly as he reached forward to grab the European's trailing ankle. Acting on pure instinct, Arthur lashed out with his foot, shaking off Alfred's grip and catching the unsuspecting nation in the stomach with a kick. Using the sudden purchase as springboard, Arthur launched himself up the next few steps and out of immediate reach.

Gasping slightly from exertion, Arthur utilized his momentary freedom to its fullest, by attempting to stand up, hoping to increase the distance between him and the unhinged American. But the moment was short-lived as Arthur saw Alfred straighten up out of the corner of his eye.

He smiled, his glasses just slightly askew. "_That's_ more like it."

Arthur blanched, cold realization washing over him. _He's actually going to kill me._

In the very next moment, Alfred leaped upwards, closing the distance separating them in the blink of an eye. He latched onto the material of Arthur's shirt, tugging him sideways so that he stumbled unwillingly into Alfred's arms.

"Yeah, that's more like it," the western nation repeated, lips nearly brushing against the bruised skin of Arthur's jaw line, breath heavy in his ear. "It is so much more _satisfying_ when you're fighting to _kill_ someone who's fighting to _live_." The arms around him tightened briefly, crushing Arthur's smaller frame for only an instant before releasing him only to recklessly toss him backwards into the nearest wall.

Arthur's pained gasp was cut short as Alfred's forearm came up under his chin to pin him in place. His breathing shortened to strangled pants as the arm pressed in to the soft flesh of his neck.

"What do you say, pops?" Alfred leaned forward maliciously, smiling at Arthur's choked gasps. "Isn't it so much more _fun_ when you struggle and run and fight and beg and scream?" The words all began to jumble together, laughter twisting his voice into something unrecognisable.

Arthur pushed fruitlessly against the American's unyielding arm, trying to relieve his burning lungs. It was becoming difficult to think, and his chest ached for air. He thought for a moment he may have blacked out, as he wondered briefly how the _fuck_ he had managed to get himself into this situation.

Alfred tilted his head in, looking like a sick imitation of an innocent, curious child. "You're not going to answer?" he asked, voice soft. "Why not, Artie?"

Arthur's weakening gasps were the only response he received.

"Oh, is it because you're having trouble _breathing_?" he guffawed.

Arthur tried to find purchase on the floor, arms still pushing ineffectively against the limb obstructing his airway, but he found his feet were gradually lifted off the ground until only the tips of his toes remained in contact with it.

"You're fucking insane," he managed to spit, voice barely above a wheeze.

A smirk slowly twisted at Alfred's lips as he pushed his arm even further into Arthur's neck, completely shutting off the Englishman's already diminished air supply. "That's the spirit."

His arms thrashed uselessly against the larger man's solid frame, whose smile only grew as Arthur's attempts became weaker and weaker.

"Not so strong now, are you?" Alfred asked in a way that wasn't really a question, face looming in closer as Arthur's vision began to dim at the edges. "And you probably thought you were something pretty special. But it's hard to be special when _you can't breathe_." His eyes widened, livid, his teeth bared in an ugly sneer.

Just as Arthur's sight completely faded from lack of oxygen, the pressure at his neck was gone.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, vaguely aware of laughter from somewhere above him as he sucked in long, ragged breaths.

"But then again, asphyxiation isn't anything terribly _special_ either. I mean, what's the fun in choking someone out when you could break every bone in their body, bleed them dry, split them open until their guts spill out across the floor?"

Arthur coughed a few final times, ignoring the nausea-inducing mental images Alfred was currently musing over. Slowly, his vision cleared, revealing the carpeted floor upon which he was on his hands and knees. He stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. He would have said something then – perhaps an attempt at talking sense into the American – but he wasn't quite sure if his throat was working yet… or would be anytime soon.

Alfred watched him raptly, like one would their favourite scene in a movie. He didn't move for a long moment, allowing Arthur distance between them this time as the Englishman tried to regain his lost composure.

"What? No witty comeback? No clever one-liner? No courageous speech?" Alfred asked, still grinning like a madman.

The smile slipped to a grimace when he was once again met with silence. "Oh, come on, Artie. Be a good sport," he said, sounding genuinely displeased. "It's no use taunting you if you don't at least _try_ to taunt back. Why won't you just play along?"

This was finally able to elicit a reaction from Arthur, who was still leaning against the wall, not quite yet ready to trust himself on his feet. "Play?" he spat incredulously, throat burning and voice coming out hoarse. "That's all this is to you, isn't it? A game? A joke?"

At this, Alfred's anger visibly flared for the firs time, no traces left of his previous giddiness. "_Life _is a joke!"

"You're sick," Arthur's voice shook as he spat the insult.

Alfred shrugged, the anger abruptly fading into unprecedented calm. "Maybe," he admitted, callous. "Or maybe I'm just like you, a poor bastard in this fucked up little game that is life. A player who was dealt the wrong hand - the losing hand." His smile was back as he began to move forwards, and Arthur staggered to the side, his dread growing as the American continued to speak.

"But then, I'm also a player who didn't _want_ to lose," he snickered, as if sharing some sort of inside joke. "Nope. I _refused _to lose. Not to _him_. Not to _anyone_."

Arthur didn't question the words – despite the lack of sense they were making – as he was too preoccupied with flinging himself away as Alfred lunged at him. He spun, pushing from the wall unsteadily and turning to run before the all too familiar feeling of rough fingers twisting into his hair pulled him back.

Arthur gasped as he was wrapped in a merciless, crushing embrace from behind. It was almost, _almost _a mock of the much kinder, much softer way Arthur used to hold Alfred back when he was a child.

"So I broke the rules, and I made new rules-" Alfred explained, voice distant, as if he wasn't even _aware _of what he was doing.

Arthur let out a cry of pain as the hold around his midsection tightened. He struggled against Alfred, his ribs groaning, but the American barely seemed to notice.

"-new rules that made certain _I_ would _always_ be the winner."

There was a sickening, unmistakable snap, and Arthur _screamed_ as all the air in his lungs was pushed upwards, _something _within him piercing sharply into his lungs.

"Always."

Alfred raised Arthur's frame up over his head, arms and legs now dangling limply and gasping in shallow, wheezing breaths.

Arthur only managed to rasp out a single, broken "A-Alfr-fred,_ please,_" as he was lifted in to the air. And then, suddenly, there was nothing holding him anymore. He became distinctly aware of the sensation of sailing, and then _falling, _over the side of the staircase he had just spent so much effort getting up.

Some part of him – he wasn't sure which one – clipped the railing on the way down, causing him to flip as he tumbled through the air, before finally landing with a gruesome _crunch _directly on his upper back.

The rest of his body followed suit, sprawling awkwardly around him as he lay in a stunned daze, wide green eyes staring up blankly at the ceiling from which it felt as though he had just come crashing through. He was entirely unable to move. He simply remained frozen on the floor, his fingers cold as numbness began to spread up his arms, listening to the pathetic sounds of his own breaths rasping in and out and distantly wondering if they sounded _watery._

He wondered if perhaps his lungs were beginning to fill with blood.

There was laughter, and more words were spoken, but Arthur couldn't make them out. In fact, he couldn't make much of anything out, sight included. His vision pitched sideways, his head throbbing unceremoniously. Agony shot through him, wracking his body, and yet somehow, in some ungodly way, it still didn't feel like nearly enough.

_I should be in more pain than this, _Arthur realized. _Especially after that fall. _

Vaguely, he wondered what was wrong with him.

_Perhaps I'm dying._

There was a deafening slam as steady, balanced feet connected with the ground mere inches away from Arthur's head while the tall, imposing figure to whom they belonged leaned over him vivaciously, long legs stretching out from the crouch they had landed in. The sound broke through Arthur's hazy barrier, forcing his senses back to him. He blinked once, a wet, gargled cough forcing its way up his throat.

Alfred laughed outright _manically _at this, leaning further over Arthur's still form.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ _oh bloody fucking shit, _he screamed internally, withering weakly beneath the American as he struggled to regain control of his limbs. _Lash out, get up, roll away – anything!_

Alfred seemed to move in slow motion, raising a single hand and fisting it tightly as a cruel grin pulled at his lips. Realizing detachedly that any attempt at a fight at this point would be in vain, Arthur settled on clenching his watery eyes shut, steeling for the worst.

And then, from a few feet away, mounted on the wall next to the kitchen, the phone began to ring.

xXx

Alexander froze as a sharp, bright noise rang through the air. He looked up, easily spotting the wall-mounted phone from where he crouched over England's beaten form.

_Which reminds me, _he thought, glancing contentedly back down at the man beneath him. _This has been ever better than I had hoped._ Noting offhandedly how completely defeated the broken nation looked, Alexander slowly lowered his fist. He straightened up slightly, wanting to get a better view of his masterpiece.

_And what a masterpiece it is_, he congratulated himself silently, gleeful pleasure building up within him at the sight of England's swollen, battered face. Blood wept steadily from gash along his forehead, small bones protruded from the skin along his snapped wrist, fat glistening tears began to well up through tightly shuttered eyelids.

Alexander smiled.

And the phone continued to ring.

His smile fell.

"Who the _fuck_ needs to be calling you right _now_?" he demanded abruptly as a new wave of anger washed over him, the dark feeling pushing aside his euphoria. Scowling, he took a step back, glaring pointedly at the source of the interruption.

The piercing rings were cut short at the sound of an audible click, a familiar, pre-recorded voice floating from the machine.

"_Hello, you've reached my personal number. Please leave a message._" A short, definitive beep sounded, and Alexander's eyes narrowed, foot arbitrarily starting to tap as he impatiently waited for whoever it was to begin speaking.

There was a brief moment of silence after the beep, and Alexander almost thought that it had been a dead call before a soft, stuttering voice suddenly sounded through the phone's speaker.

"_Oh,__ he didn't… oh._" There was another beat of silence, and Alexander's expression twisted into a harsh frown, leaning back on his heels as he struggled to place the nearly inaudible voice.

The lightly-accented voice from the phone started up once again, drifting across the spacious room. "_Hello, England. It's me– I mean, um, it's Matthew Williams. Canada. Your colo- your ex-colony. The, uh, second biggest country on the planet."_

Alexander's eyes narrowed to thin slits, breath leaving his lips in a harsh sigh. _Why the fuck is that pathetic little piece of shit calling?_ As the gentle voice continued to stutter through an awkward introduction, Alexander found himself taking a few brisk steps forwards in the direction on the offending machine.

"_So, um… I'm the in the car with Francis right now…_" Canada's voice still floated through the room, and Alexander was gripped with the uncontrollable urge to rip the phone off the wall and smash it to small, indistinguishable pieces. "_…and, well, we're on our way over… to your place._"

Alexander stopped before the unassuming machine, his mind managing to seize the fact that Canada and France were headed his way. His pupils dilated, thoughts running wild with unhinged ideas of broken limbs and dead stares.

_I could kill them all. Gone, in this single, glorious moment._ An empty grin found its way to his lips as the Canadian's stammering voice continued to float from the small speaker.

"_I'm sorry for not having confirmed with you earlier._ _We just– It was Francis's idea. Anyway, we'll probably be there in… ten or so minutes._"

Alexander's eyes suddenly widened, thoughts flipping around so fast it nearly made him dizzy. _That's too soon. Ten minutes isn't nearly long enough._A harsh growl sounded through his teeth, hand reaching up rapidly towards the phone box.

_Son of a bitch, coming to ruin my fun. I want to watch him struggle and squirm and scream for mercy until every last drop of blood in his veins has been spilled._

_I want this moment to __**last**__._

Alexander's eyes glinted dangerously as his hand stilled on the smooth plastic, the last of the Canadian's words being recorded by the machine.

"_So, um, I hope you get this message and… again, I'm really sorry… about everything._"

Alexander's teeth grated together as one last voice sounded from the phone, echoing as is from a slight distance, the heavy French accent betraying its origin. "_Nous t'aimons, Angleterre!_"

Alexander's hand closed around the top of the phone and, in one swift motion, he tore it from the wall. The damaged machine clattered to the ground in a loud, reverberating smash. He sighed in poorly held frustration, giving his handiwork a long, hard look.

"What to do, what to do?" he pondered out loud.

_I could just kill them all, _he reasoned to himself. _And who knows, maybe one of them might actually put up a good fight._

He cackled gleefully, fingers tingling with excitement as he imagined wringing them around a certain Canadian's neck.

_He's been such a fucking pain lately. He definitely deserves to suffer._

Alexander's laughter stilled suddenly, a new though coming to him out of nowhere.

_Then again, what better way to make him suffer than to have him stumble upon the mangled, lifeless body of his dear, trusted friend the moment he arrives?_

His thoughts grew distant as he imagined the sorrow and guilt Canada would drown in when he saw that he had so completely and utterly failed at helping England.

What would he do then? Would he speak out and openly accuse his dear brother of murdering their past guardian? Would he only tell a few others and dare putting their lives at risk too?

"Or will he be too fucking scared to do anything at all?" Alexander asked, not even realizing until after the words had left his mouth that he had actually spoken them out loud. He shook his head, expression slipping back into an easy grin. "I guess we'll just have to find out."

He turned back around. "Well, this has been fun, old man, but I've wasted enough time alrea-" Alexander froze, his words dying on his tongue as wide blue eyes scanned the blood-stained floor he had left England to lay on.

Alexander stepped forwards, gaze locked onto the empty spot where his defeated opponent had just been.

England was gone.


	12. Break (Part II)

**AN: I get so embarrassed by my old writing you have no idea how much it makes me want to shoot myself  
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* * *

><p>"God-fucking-damnit," Alexander hissed, frustrated at his own inattentiveness. Fresh streaks of blood indicated the direction in which England fled, and Alexander charged forwards instantly, following them.<p>

_How the fuck didn't you hear him go?_ _How could you have been so stupid? _he berated himself furiously as he reached the bottom of the staircase he had previously thrown England over.

_You're losing your touch. You're getting sloppy._

"Shut up, just shut up," Alexander snapped, shaking his head as he raced up the stairs.

_The _real_ Alfred wouldn't have been so careless. The _real_ Alfred wouldn't have been so stupid._

"England!" Alexander screamed suddenly, trying to block out the internal voice. "Don't think you can hide from me forever, England!"

He stopped at the top of the stairs, where the trail of blood seemed to thin out into small specks before disappearing completely.

_He had the sense to staunch it. See? Even that old bastard can outsmart you._

Alexander took off forward at a sprint, as if in attempt to outrun the taunting words plaguing him. He came to an intersection where the hall split off in two separate directions, choosing a one at random and kicking in doors as he went. With each empty room, he grew more and more desperate.

_You let him get away. Face it. You _lost.

Panicking more than he cared to admit, Alexander opted for a new approach.

"Arthur, help! Help! It's me! It's Alfred!" He kicked in the fourth door from the last.

_You're a failure._

The third from the last.

"Arthur, please! It's me!"

_Nothing like the real Alfred._

The second.

"Shut up! You don't know anything! I am Alfred! I am!"

The last.

The door flew open at the same time that a gunshot was fired. Alexander felt the bullet tear into his shoulder, knocking him back, but registered no pain. He surged forwards, heedless and off-kilter, starved eyes locked onto the hunched figure standing across the room, pistol in hand.

England was clearly alarmed by Alexander's lack of reaction to being shot. He stumbled backwards until his back was pressed against the wall, blood stained hand struggling to cock the gun for a second shot.

Alexander continued to rush forward without hesitation, teeth bared in an ugly snarl. He flung himself at the smaller man just in time to knock the pistol from England's hand, who didn't so much duck as he did fall out of the way of Alexander's flailing grasp.

_I'll kill him,_ Alexander thought disjointedly, _I'll kill him right here and now. That'll show you. That'll show them._

He spun back around to face England, only belatedly realizing that he had brought up his second hand, which was holding a long, rusted scabbard. The blade slashed across his lower abdomen, but Alexander side-stepped the attack, and a fast kick to England's chest sent him reeling back before he could do any further damage.

He cried out as he crashed against the floor, hands coming up to protect his face as Alexander stepped forwards to deliver another kick.

"Why would you want to hurt me, Artie?" he asked as landed a particularly violent blow to England's side. "It's me, _Alfred_, your dear ex-colony." He struck again, and England trashed weakly, curling in on himself.

Alexander managed a smile at the display, and just as he was about to continue his barrage of kicks when he thought he heard something vaguely reminiscent of a string of words coming from England.

"Oh, _sorry_," Alexander mocked, leaning over the Brit. "I didn't quite catch that over the sound of you _dying_."

There was a violent cough before England somehow managed to choke out three words.

"You're not Alfred."

The words hit, leaving Alexander with a sudden, irreversible wave of red-hot fury crashing down over him, consuming him with tremors of rage and clouding his vision. He thought he may have even let out a scream.

England's raised arms did nothing to protect him from the deranged nature of Alexander's vehement blows, which he realized belatedly he had begun without even consciously deciding on it. England gargled out something that may have been a cry for mercy, but Alexander was too far gone to revel in his obvious pain. He stomped down on England's lower leg, drawing out a long, painful scream as the bone cracked loudly.

"Yes I am! Yes I am! YES I AM!" he screamed over and over, punctuation each sentence with another kick.

Abruptly, everything stilled. The only sound which filled the room was Alexander's panting of exertion, and the light, barely-audible wheezing coming from the bloodied figure on the ground before him.

It was then that Alexander made his biggest mistake. Instead of finishing it off then and there, he turned away, bringing his hands up to cradle his head.

"I'm the real one," he babbled. "I'm the real one I'm the real one I'm the real one _I'mtherealone-_ He's nothing. He's nothing, nothing, an imposter, nothing," he repeated the words, barely even able to hear himself of the roaring in his head telling him otherwise, and completely unable to stop.

"I'm Alfred. I'm Alfred, I am, I am, I swear to god I am, please, I swear, I'm Alfred, please-"

Alexander didn't notice England taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"He's an imposter, he's a liar, he's a fake– _he_ is _nothing_."

Alexander didn't notice England blindly reach out towards the bookshelf beside him. He didn't notice the book that fell haphazardly onto the floor, pages fluttering randomly before settling open, next to the crumpled Englishman.

"You're _all_ nothing."

He didn't even noticed when England managed to push himself up slightly, eyes scanning the page desperately as blood spilled down liberally over the words. The jumbled words that spilled forth from England's bruised lips were just white noise amongst the rising pressure in Alexander's mind. And the orange glow that spread towards him didn't even register to his fraying consciousness.

"Because I _won_. I'm- I'm _still_ winning. I'm still- I'm the real one. Heh-" he began to laugh, voice cackling, words still jumbled together within the laughter.

Alexander did, however, take notice when all at once a wall of flames erupted at his back, separating him from his forgotten target. Thoughts snapping abruptly back into clarity, mind lurching sickeningly, the American whirled around, eyes alight with fury and confusion.

"England!" he screamed, words tearing at his throat. He squinted through the rapidly growing flames, taking a single step forwards before the harsh heat of the fire stopped his advance. He growled at the smaller man on the other side of the fluctuating barrier, watching as the Englishman trembled violently while slowly dragging himself backwards towards the open door.

Alexander followed England's slow movement with wide, infuriated eyes. Regretfully, he forced his attention away from his prey and back on the wildly growing fire between them.

"You little bastard," he swore, stepping back as all too quickly the flames licked up the nearby bookshelf. He was trapped.

_He's getting away. Again._

"Shut up," he snarled as England managed to crawl to the doorway, pushing himself up slightly as he struggled back out in to hall.

_You're just going to stand there and let him get away?_

"No! No! Not this time! I'll kill him!"

Arms raised haphazardly in front of his face, Alexander barrelled forwards, sprinting with a nearly inhuman speed through the flames that tried to lick at his skin and clothes. He barely felt their heat. With a wordless snarl, he flew out of the flames and out in to the hall, slamming against the far wall before he could slow his momentum. He looked up, eyes wild, just in time to see England throw himself in to the closest room and weakly slam the door shut behind him.

"You can't hide from me!" Alexander screamed as he raced to the door, fully intending to smash it in.

Less than a fraction of a second before he reached it, there was a small flash as the door was engulfed in a barely visible sheen of violet light. Alexander swore loudly as he grabbed the handle and twisted with full force.

The handle snapped off, but the door didn't move. He thudded against it instead, throwing the full of weight of his body against the barrier.

"England! Open up!" he cried in frustration, slamming against the wooden surface again and again. "Your damn magic can't last forever!"

The flames from the room he had just left licked into the hall, and Alexander could feel the intensity of the heat growing at his back. He continued to pound on the unmoving door as thick smoke began to cloud his vision and burn his lungs. He continued to beat against the door, and while the entire wall practically shook with the force of his resounding strikes, the door held firm.

Behind him, Alexander heard glass shattering as a window exploded from the pressure of the flames - heat, smoke and fire alike escaping into the darkness of the night.

And still the inferno continued to blaze.

_The bastard's concentrating too much of his energy on the fucking shield, _the American realized. _He's too weak to control the fire too._

He knew England had to be close to passing out, whether from blood loss, pain, or one of the many blows to the head he had taken. But the fire was growing at a concerning pace – already having engulfed one entire room and now making its way into others – and Alexander wasn't sure if he'd be able to wait it out for much longer.

_He's going to get away. You __**let**__ him get away._

"No, goddamn it, no," Alexander hissed to himself, smashing his fist in to the wall beside the door, making a sizeable indent in the wooden boards. "Why won't you just shut up?"

When the wall behind him suddenly caved in, stirring up ash and billowing out smoke, he knew he had to act fast.

With a wordless scream, he slammed his shoulder against the door, the wood creaking loudly, but still refusing to give in. Alexander repeated the action several more times, desperate in his speed, but before anything could become of it, an new sound caught his attention.

Voices.

"Angleterre! Angleterre, où es-tu?"

"This way!"

_No, no, no, fuck no! _Alexander would have screamed in frustration, but knew the sound would have alerted the others to his presence.

_Of course they would rush in to a fucking burning building for him. Of fucking course._

Fire swirling around him and smoke stinging his eyes, he thought it over quickly, weighing his options. The walls creaked dangerously as the sound of burning wood betrayed the sorry state of the hallway.

There was no time left, Alexander realized with a sudden, startling clarity. There was nothing more he could do. The entire hall would be on fire in mere moments.

He had missed his chance.

But then again, so had England.

If _he _couldn't get to him, at least the fire would.

At least he would still _burn._

The others still needed to suffer though. Maybe not now, maybe not here, but somehow.

And soon.

_This isn't over. Not even close._

He would be back. Those thoughts reverberated achingly in mind, the promises ingraining themselves in his being.

One way or another, Alexander was going to finish what he had started.

The voices continued to echo up from the end of the hall, footsteps thudding near the top of the steps.

For now, at least, it was time for him to take his leave.

Alexander pushed himself away from the still-guarded door and down the precarious hallway, sidestepping a violent burst of ash and flames as he made his way decisively towards the newly shattered window. Reaching the edge of the window's frame, he shot one last, calm gaze down the length of the burning hallway before hefting himself over the ledge and into the night.

He barely missed seeing a trio of distinctive figures rounding the corner of the hall in a frantic blur behind him.

This was only the beginning - the beginning of what he could tell was going to be a long, violent, chaotic game.

A game to settle one hundred and fifty-one year's worth of grudges and secrets.

A game that Alexander had every intention of winning.

xXx

Francis stumbled to a halt the moment he barged through the front door, eyes wide with alarm as they scanned over the carnage and ruin scattered haphazardly through the house. His breath caught in his throat, thoughts whirling to a stop as took in the various signs of wreckage.

This wasn't just some random destruction or meaningless mess. No, this showed signs of struggle. Of combat.

He was looking at a battle ground.

Francis drew in a sharp breath, feet once again carrying him forwards, further into the house's interior. He ran past an overturned coffee table and the shattered fragments of a broken vase, and further on caught the glint of a long sword with a crushed hilt laying abandoned on the floor. Trying not to think about why or how it had gotten there, he was caught suddenly off guard when a harsh, coppery scent reached his nose. It only took him a second to figure out what it was.

Blood.

The white bear in front of him contrasted sharply against the dark, dingy ruin around him, its tiny nose sniffing the tangy air as a desperate growl rumbled from its chest. Francis heard an audible gasp as Matthew came stumbling in to the room behind him, eyes wide with distraught. He thought he may have heard the younger nation whisper something along the lines of "He wouldn't really… he_ couldn't_…" but before he even had a chance to question the meaning those words held, his attention was drawn away by something else.

The small bear Francis had been following was moving swiftly towards a grand, sweeping staircase across the room.

It was slicked with bright crimson blood.

Francis cast a quick, frightened look towards Matthew before they both took off behind the determined bear. Pausing briefly at the base of the stairs, Francis's gaze swept up the bloodied steps, stomach churning nauseatingly. He pushed down the scarring image of lifeless green eyes as he forced himself take the steps two at a time, intent on pursuing the rapidly moving bear.

Matthew seemed frozen, eyes stuck on the gruesome sight before him, face pale with dread, and given the circumstances, Francis couldn't blame him. He was feeling quite pale and full of dread himself. However, as he pushed himself up the steps, only seconds behind Matthew's animal companion, he found his voice calling out, words seeming to have arbitrarily reverted back to French.

"Angleterre! Angleterre, où es-tu?"

There was no answer, no angry British voice yelling at him for his froggish language. There was only the intense crackle of flames and the dark, stifling smoke pooling around him to obscure the landing Francis now stood in.

Eyes blinking rapidly in the sudden increase of temperature, Francis watched as the white bear paused at the entrance of a long, darkened, ashy hallway. The small creature tossed a single command back at him in its oddly toned voice. "This way!" it yelled before darting down the hall, which Francis only belatedly realized was _completely_ _on fire_.

Francis swore, feet carrying him forwards despite his trepidation. He noted in the back of his mind that Matthew had finally caught up to him, his smaller form trembling like a leaf in the wind. From up ahead, Francis heard the bear yell out something that sounded suspiciously like "Here! Here!" Next thing he knew, he was ducking around a large pillar of flames, running headlong without pause directly towards the worst of the flame.

Towards Arthur.

He stumbled slightly over a fallen door, noticing for the first time the utter destruction of the hall amounted to more than just the damage caused by the flames. All the doorways were either obviously kicked in or torn open, and there was a discarded old pistol tossed in amongst the remains of a deteriorating hall.

At the far end of the hallway, through the wreckage and the flame, was a single, untouched door.

Francis found that he was yelling even before he got there, sprinting the length of the hall as licks of fire signed at his clothing. "Arthur!? Arthur! Don't you _dare _be dead in there, or I swear to god I'll kill you myself!" He reached the vaguely shinning door just as the bear before it whined, the low sound only barely audible over the loud crackle of flames.

"Too hot," the white creature moaned, pawing fruitlessly at the door. "No time! No time!"

Francis didn't even blink at the bear's words, suddenly noticing the strange glow which encircled the door, alluding to the use of the Brit's magic.

He cursed loudly, fists already pounding on the shimmering surface, forgoing the use of the door's handle when he noticed it was no longer attached to the actual door. "You open this door right now, Arthur, or I won't hesitate to leave you!" he lied desperately. The door remained stubbornly in place, regardless of how much strength Francis put behind his hits.

Matthew rounded the final barrier of flames just as Francis pounded both fists on the unmoving surface, crying out in frustration.

And then, all in a single moment, the abused door's slight shimmering faded abruptly. The wood split in several parts, tumbling gracelessly inwards as if it had meant to collapse long before that moment. Flames danced at his back as the air pressure in the hall suddenly changed, smoke billowing in to the recently revealed room as stale air rushed outwards, making Francis blink back tears.

He heard Matthew gasp behind him, the younger nation stumbling to a stop at Francis's shoulder, but it was all background noise to the loud, panicked buzzing in his ears.

Sitting on the far side of the room, crumpled feebly against the wall, was Arthur.

Francis took a single step forwards, tripping slightly over the newly fallen door, and Arthur's foggy gaze snapped up to his, eyes wide in unrestrained fear, a choked sound emerging from bloody lips. Arthur spasmed, attempting to curl protectively in on himself, heedless of the way it aggravated his leg, which was visibly broken, twisted at a painful-looking angle.

Before Francis even had a chance to take another step, the Englishman's rigid pose went limp, haunted green eyes rolling up in his head as he sagged forward.

"Oh God," Matthew mumbled behind Francis, the flames roaring louder as the house groaned dangerously. "Oh God, please don't let him be—" the words choked off.

Francis paid him no mind as he closed the distance between himself and the fallen nation across the room, coughing roughly as his lungs tried to dispel the continuously growing smoke.

"Arthur!?" he exclaimed uselessly, faltering as he reached the Englishman's side. He gave the still form a quick once-over trying to asses where best to grab him, but couldn't tell if the many dark bruises and steadily weeping cuts continued across the parts of his body that were still clothed. He crouched down, hands hovering uncertainly over Arthur's shoulders.

"Arthur, wake up. You need to get up," he told him, ignoring the growing thought that Arthur may not _ever_ get up.

The fire had nearly started invading the room, and he heard Matthew yelp apprehensively from the doorway. "Francis, we need to get out of here!"

His panic refused to subside as he continued to hover beside Arthur uselessly, afraid to touch him for how delicate he looked. Experience on the battlefield told him it was unsafe to move anyone in such a critical condition, especially because he didn't want to be responsible for further damage to the neck or spine later on. However, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the unconscious man wasn't going to awaken any time soon, and the logical part of Francis was telling him that if they didn't get out _now_, there wouldn't even _be _a later to worry about.

From somewhere behind him, "Francis, _please_!"

Sparing one last pitiful glance at Arthur's broken body, Francis hesitantly reached both arms around the smaller man, shifting the Englishman's limp form so that he could pull Arthur to his chest.

"_Désolé, mon ami,_" he muttered quietly, feeling the heat of an inferno at his back as he rose from his crouch, one arm under Arthur's bent legs while the other cradled his shoulders. Arthur's head flopped lifelessly against Francis' chest, and he couldn't help but notice how wrong the angle was at which the Englishman's left leg hung. Pushing the unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind, Francis turned around to face Matthew, who stood fearfully at the entrance of the room, eyes wide and pale skin covered in soot.

"Is he…" Matthew's gaze hovered apprehensively over Arthur's form, voice cracking in distress. "He's not d-_dead_, is he?" The flames danced dangerously behind them, the doorway almost completely blocked. They needed to move, and they needed to move now.

"Outside," was all Francis said in response to Matthew's terrified question. He rushed forwards as fast as he dared, trying not to agitate Arthur's limp form, taking a small amount of comfort in the gentle wheezing he could feel against his neck.

_Not giving up yet, are you, you stubborn old bastard?_

Matthew clamped his mouth shut as Francis neared him, eyes still glued hazily on the blood that dripped in the Frenchman's wake, expression twisted in nauseating fear. Francis had a brief moment of almost overwhelming terror when he thought Matthew wouldn't snap out of it, but then, just before Francis reached him, his eyes seemed to clear and a focused look appeared on his face. Francis breathed a sigh of relief as Matthew spun around to lead the way out of the room.

Francis didn't hesitate to follow him.

They passed through the open doorway and then suddenly, the three of them were amidst ash and soot and flames – and the flames were _everywhere_. The hallway was almost unrecognisable, having been consumed drastically even in the few moments Francis had spent gathering Arthur. The Frenchman's arms tightened almost protectively around his current charge as he dogged through the inferno.

Francis also noted belatedly that the tiny white bear wasn't with them. The creature had, in all likelihood, escaped the deathtrap of a house as soon as its mission of leading them in was done.

Francis gritted his teeth, arms and legs shaking with effort as he passed yet another pillar of flames. The world seemed to narrow around him, thoughts tapering to focus only on the most important aspects of his current reality. All Francis knew at the moment was the thin form in front of him, paving a path through the collapsing hallway, and the weight in his arms.

And, of course, the blazing fire around him, making his skin darken with ash and burns.

The heat was unbearable, flames licking at his arms and legs, and Francis wanted nothing more than to bat them away, but instead he held tight to the limp body in his grasp.

And suddenly they were outside, passing through the open entryway of the house as they rushed out onto the lawn, fire and smoke giving way to cool, sweet air. Francis didn't even remember going down the stairs, let alone running through the house's main floor. Their mad dash had blurred into one long moment of burning heat and black smoke. Francis blinked away tears from his eyes, wanting to yell out, to get help for himself, for Matthew, for the man in his arms, but all he found himself capable of as he stumbled away from the burning house was large, gasping inhalations of air interrupted by harsh, wracking coughs.

He fell to his knees, holding Arthur close with the little strength he had left and savouring the feeling of cool grass beneath him. Through his hazy thoughts, he was aware of Matthew next to him, having fallen to the ground only moments before in a fit of coughing. The small white bear, fur covered in soot, was suddenly back, gently padding at his owner's face.

The sounds of sirens and nearby voices invaded his brief moment of internal celebration. Francis looked up with a start, noting the flashing lights and bright uniforms of various emergency vehicles and officials. A bright fire engine came screaming to a stop in front of the house at that moment as its sirens continued to wail.

Then there were people in front of them, checking if they were alright, questioning them about the blaze, tearing Arthur from Francis's grasp and swiftly whisking him off to the nearby paramedics. Matthew, thankfully, had managed to gather himself enough at that point to answer most of the questions being thrown their way, as several medics ministered to his various scrapes and burns.

"I don't know," Matthew uttered, voice rough, as he was asked for the umpteenth time about the cause of the fire. "I don't know."

The barrage of questions only ceased when Matthew began up another violent coughing fit. The paramedics returned, an oxygen mask in hand, and spoke to him gently as he struggled for breath, helping remove his soot-covered glasses to better fit the breathing apparatus.

A nearby officer turned to Francis, who had been silent this entire time, and who was standing again, although he didn't remember when or how he managed to do so.

"He's badly injured," she stated, tossing a brief glance over her shoulder to where Arthur was being loaded onto an ambulance on a stretcher. "And it appears it was purposefully inflicted." She offered a small,comforting smile to the numb Frenchman before her stare turned serious again. "Do you have any idea who would do something like this to him? Or why?"

Francis blinked owlishly at her, thoughts struggling to catch up with the situation. Finally, he managed words, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I have no fucking idea."


	13. Past (Part I)

**AN: The following chapter is probably so historically inaccurate it's offensive so have fun  
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><p>It was such a strange feeling, being at war with yourself.<p>

It was almost like being two different people, sharing one body, constantly fighting for control.

It was a feeling that possessed Alfred nearly every second of every day during the final cold months of the year 1860.

Although, politically speaking, war had not yet been declared. Alfred knew it was coming, though. Like a storm on the horizon, he could easily see it moving closer with each passing hour of each passing day. He had heard debate after debate about it in courthouses and briefing rooms. He had heard hushed, nervous gossip of it from the local townsfolk gathered in huddles on the streets when he passed by. He had even heard the children laughing and joking about it in the school yards, pretending it was some sort of game, with different sides to bet on.

Alfred wanted to tell them that there were no sides, that there wasn't going to be a war, and that everything was going to work itself out.

Those were lies, he knew, but that didn't stop him from wishing they were true; because although it hadn't yet been declared, had someone told him it otherwise, Alfred wouldn't have known the difference.

To him, it felt like the war had already begun.

And _damn_, did it ever feel strange.

He allowed himself to repeat the thought – this time out loud.

"Being at war with yourself is very, very strange."

It was an understatement, Alfred knew. But words had never been his strong point, and articulating much of anything was difficult when his mind was constantly stumbling over itself to fight two different sides of the same internal debate, or when it was flooding with thoughts trying to justify ideals he knew to be morally _wrong_ but that somehow just seemed so naturally right.

Especially when that internal _something_ that voiced those thoughts sounded like himself. Exactly like himself. Even though he knew – he just _knew _– it wasn't.

It couldn't be.

_We aren't at war just yet, _some foreign part of his mind whispered to him. _There's still time to fix this. We can stop it all before it gets any further out of hand. We can free our people peacefully._

Alfred found himself nodding, although there was no one around to see it in the wood-stove heated kitchen of his small New England farmhouse.

"Yes, I suppose that is a nice thought," Alfred told it. "Although, I feel it might be a tad too late for that now."

_Damn right it is! _hissed a darker, angrier sounding voice within him. _They're the ones who've broken the Constitution! They've done nothing but lie to us, and sit back and watch as this country tears itself apart. Now they're going to pay for it!_

"We're going to _make _them pay for it," Alfred finished the thought, almost instinctively.

Vaguely, he wondered if other nations around the world had had this much trouble during times of civil unrest. "Europe's had plenty of civil wars and uprisings, hasn't it?" he asked no one in particular. "Do you suppose Arthur ever went through something like this?"

_You sound right insane speaking to yourself like that, _the two voices told him in unison.

"Look who's talking," Alfred snapped right back, hoping to shut them up.

The rest of the night continued in a similar fashion, with one voice attempting to persuade him one way and another refuting back.

_Yes, _one would say.

_No, _the other would growl back.

_What they're doing is wrong, _the first one would insist.

_You never had a problem with it before, when it was of convenience to you, _the second would argue, refusing to back down.

"You're both insane," Alfred would tell them.

It was such a strange feeling, being at war with yourself.

xXx

Somehow, tedious debates and relentless internal voices seemed almost preferable to the situation he found himself in now, seated tensely, still in his sleeping wear, and staring vigilantly across his kitchen table at...

Well, at _himself_.

Alfred frowned, eyes narrowing as he gave the other him a once-over for what was mostly like the thirtieth time that morning.

And what an impossible morning it had been.

The first thing Alfred had noticed when he had woken up earlier that morning had been the silence. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there had been no pounding headaches, no deafening roar of blood thumping against the underside of his skull, and no perpetually bickering voices to which his mind had become so accustomed.

There had been pure, blissful silence.

This bliss, of course, had been all but shattered moments later when Alfred stood up, only to realize that there was another person in his room, hunched against the wall on the opposite side of the bed.

The real confusion had begun when both men had, in exact unison, begun the demands of "Who are you?" and "What are you doing here?" and "Get out of my house!"

_Yes, that's right, _Alfred thought bitterly, remembering his chagrin at being told to get out of _his own _house by a complete stranger.

Due to the lack of his glasses – which to Alfred's increasing anger, the other man had been wearing – it wasn't until after their shouting match had somewhat settled down that he had noticed their uncanny resemblance. It was this notion that had suddenly made him aware of how they both stood with the exact same guarded posture, and how they wore identical expressions of incredulity, and how they had been shouting nearly the exact same things at each other, and how much their voices sounded alike...

Like the voices in his head, which had sounded so alike...

This had led to a realization of different sorts, which both men seemed to have come to at the same time, successfully shocking them into complete, wide-eyed silence.

These had been the events leading up to where they were now, warily eyeing each other with narrowed, apprehensive glares, as the brisk February morning welcomed the rising sun on the other side of the kitchen window.

Alfred, feeling uncomfortable in the cold sweat plastered across his skin from the night, shifted slightly in his chair, folding and unfolding his hands across the tabletop. He paused mid-action, as his double did the same, looking equally uncomfortable.

Alfred's eyes narrowed even further, a tinge of annoyance starting to build up within him.

Here was this man who looked and spoke exactly like him, was probably thinking the exact same thoughts as him, and now apparently they even _fidgeted _the exact same way.

It was unnerving as hell.

Alfred cleared his throat.

At the exact same moment as the other man.

They both froze, shooting each other glares.

Refusing to be put off, Alfred pressed forward after a short moment of tense silence.

"So..."

"So," the other him agreed.

Alfred frowned. "_So,_" he repeated, enunciating the syllable purposefully, before forcing himself to take a moment to quell his rising frustration. Instead of continuing to stare at each other in discomfort and obvious annoyance, Alfred opted for a new approach to the conversation. "Would you perhaps like some... coffee or something?" he asked. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back from the table and stood, already anticipating the answer.

His double raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Should I want anything in this house, I would get it myself."

Alfred paused, brow furrowing in slight confusion as he worked over the odd response. Slowly, he let himself sink back down onto his chair. "Alright then," he said carefully. "The mugs are in the-"

"The cupboard just left of the stove – yes, thank you, I know." The other man cut him off with a roll of his identical sky blue eyes. "This is my house too, remember?"

"Of course." Alfred nodded, but said nothing else, electing a scowl from his double.

"You don't believe me." It wasn't a question.

Alfred blinked. "No! Well... perhaps. It's just awfully strange to- I'm just not used to 'sharing' this house with another person- er, nation," he corrected himself hastily, stumbling over the words.

The other man's displeased expression shifted slightly, as if Alfred's words had stirred a thought within him. "Say," he began. "What do you consider yourself exactly?"

There was a long pause.

"What do I... consider myself?" Alfred asked, perturbed.

"Well, you aren't necessarily a nation, but you're clearly some sort of being that's split off from one, so-"

"Now, hold on a minute!" Alfred demanded suddenly. "Of course I'm a nation! I'm the United States of America!"

"I think you'll find you're mistaken." His double shook his head vigorously, looking skeptical. "_I _am Alfred F Jones, representative of the-"

"No," Alfred cut in loudly, frustrated by the other man's condescension. "Not a chance. _I'm_ Alfred F Jones and _you _most _definitely _split off from _me_. Not the other way around." He waved his hands about, as if demonstrating the pure foolishness of the thought.

"Look here," the other man began, a heated look crossing his face. "I woke up first and you were-"

"That doesn't prove anything!"

"I'm the one wearing Texas. If you were any kind of nation you would-"

"You're only wearing them because you _stole_ them off of my night-stand!"

Both men were standing at this point, the toppled over chairs behind them long forgotten as they verbally tore each other apart at full volume, the noise reverberating around the small, cold room.

After nearly a full minute, Alfred – frustrated and exasperated as he was – had accepted the fact that this argument was going nowhere fast. He bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from continuing, ready to allow his double to scream his lungs out if that's what it took to settle him down enough to have a proper discussion again.

Unfortunately, to Alfred's continuously flaring temper, the other so-called 'Alfred' appeared to have come to the exact same decision. In a single moment, the room was suddenly flooded with heavy, tense silence.

Alfred scowled, annoyed, but continued to hold his tongue.

The other man kicked his chair back up, setting it back in place before carefully lowering himself once again onto it, his eyes never leaving Alfred's identical pair.

"My apologies," he said distastefully, sounding anything but apologetic. "That..." He cleared his throat. "That got out of hand."

Alfred was tempted to role his eyes. "Yes," he settled for saying instead, posture still guarded as he slowly sat down as well. "It did."

His double closed his eyes, plucking off the glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose. It was an exact replica of the way Alfred willed away an oncoming headache.

He turned away, still not used to seeing this 'other him' perform actions he was so used to doing himself. It was nearly too much to wrap his head around.

This thing, this person... had once been _part_ of him.

He gave a small shake of his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and ran a hand through his hair before letting it fall limply back to his side. Behind him, the other Alfred spoke again.

"Let's, uh, let's try that again, why don't we?"

Alfred nodded, somehow knowing his double's eyes were watching him. "Let's," he agreed.

"Alright then." He heard the other man straightening himself. "Any ideas?"

"Ideas?" Alfred asked, curious despite himself.

"About what's going on. How we might clarify it." _How we might find out who's really who, _he didn't say, but Alfred heard it all the same.

"I don't know," Alfred shrugged, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Why are you asking me?"

"Well, it isn't if _my_ ideas are going to be any better than _yours_," his double pointed out plainly.

Alfred blinked, letting the words sink it. "Right," he said, pushing himself upwards once more and beginning to pace the room. "Right, of course." Alfred gnawed anxiously on his lip as he paced, thinking hard. He knew that he had all the pieces of this puzzle, he just wasn't sure what to make of them. Growing up with England, he had never seen or heard of anyone experiencing what he was experiencing now, even during times of civil dispute. And Europe had a _lot _of civil dispute.

He had never heard of another nation splitting into two different versions of itself, or of representatives hearing-

Alfred halted mid-step.

"What is it?" the voice, exactly like his own, broke him from his thoughts. His double was staring at him, face morphed into an expression of confusion and... was that worry?

"The voices," he blurted out suddenly, whirling around.

His double raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"The voices!" Alfred repeated again, as if that would somehow clarify his thoughts. "There was... I used to - well, I suppose _we _used to - hear them always bickering and fighting." He paused, judging the other man's expression to see if he was following. "Did you...?"

"Hear them? Yes, I remember." He nodded, before adding in a somewhat thoughtful tone, "Although I haven't heard anything since before... all of this." He gestured vaguely in the empty space between them.

"Exactly!" Alfred exclaimed. "They're gone now, but they _were _there before! At first it took me a trifle to figure out why, but I realized after a while that they both represented..." he wrung his hands together, struggling to find the right words, "I suppose they represented the dominant ideology in different parts of the country... You see?"

"Yes," the other Alfred said slowly, though he was clearly still confused about what exactly the subject had to do with their current predicament.

"Well, do you suppose we aren't hearing them anymore because we _are _them?" He had worded it poorly, Alfred knew, but his double seemed to understand his meaning anyway.

"You're saying that you believe that I embodied one of these... 'ideologies', and you the other?" he asked carefully, tilting his head slightly in a manner that Alfred knew meant he was actually considering the idea.

"Yes." Alfred nodded. "Before I was – or rather, we were – _neutral_, I suppose. I agreed with them both, in part."

"That's true." His double's eyes widened, as if the significance of this revelation was only just now dawning upon him. "Alright, so which one are you?" he asked deliberately.

Alfred lumbered back over to the table, falling heavily onto his chair. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"What do you believe now? Which voice do you agree with?" his double pressed.

"I just told you, I don't know.I can't-"

"Who do you believe is right or wrong? Do you think the Abolition Movement is good?"

"Maybe," Alfred started. "But either way, I still can't just _decide_ which side I-"

"What about the slave states? How do you feel about them?"

"I don't know!" Alfred all but screamed. "I feel whatever my citizens feel!"

The other Alfred's eyes narrowed, another question already forming on his lips. This one caught Alfred completely off-guard.

"Where is your capital?"

He blinked, his momentary agitation forgotten. "Pardon me?"

"Just answer it," his double demanded, suddenly completely serious. His eyes were dark and slightly glazed over, focusing intently on something in the distance – a look Alfred was familiar with. It was the one he usually wore when he was trying to visually map out his land, or sense something that was far away, in another state perhaps.

"What is the capital of the nation you represent?" the man repeated.

Alfred, at this point realizing that his double must have thought he was on to something, played along.

"Fine, it's-"

"Because mine's-"

"-Washington."

"-Montgomery."

Alfred's heart lurched, a cold, numb feeling washing over him as he processed the words. His double watched him with the same stricken look.

"Montgomery?" Alfred asked, voice suddenly small and child-like.

That was impossible. Montgomery wasn't a national capital. Montgomery was-

Gone.

The whole city. No, the whole _state._ He couldn't feel it.

He tried again.

Nothing.

The emptiness struck something painful deep within him. Alfred closed his eyes, letting the world around him fade for a moment as he turned his senses inward. Through closed lids, thousands and thousands of miles of rolling hills and dense forests and crumbling cliff-sides spread out before him. He reached as far as he could go, stretching out over his nation, feeling, searching.

And then he stopped short, unable to go any further.

"It's gone," he whispered, voice sounding distant and unattached.

It was as if someone had taken a knife to his lungs, carving out entire sections before tearing them away. He suddenly found it impossible to breathe.

There were more. More pieces of him missing. He could feel the hollow, heavy spaces they left behind. It took him a moment to realize which states they were, to even remember their names. Florida, Georgia, Texas, Louisiana, South Carolina, and Mississippi.

Alfred's eyes snapped open. "They're gone. Wh-What happened?" He was gasping suddenly, and there was a tight, constricted feeling in his chest. He couldn't remember when it had started; all he knew was that it wouldn't go away.

His double's eyes met his for a second before flickering away. He swallowed roughly and gave a curt nod, as if to say, _I thought so._

"They acceded," the other Alfred stated factually, voice sounding regretful as he watched his apparent twin struggle to breathe.

"_When_?" Alfred demanded, swallowing back the bile that was rising in his throat.

"Last night. A congress of secessionists convened in Montgomery."

Alfred wrapped his arms around his stomach, fighting the urge to double over. A cold hand settled on his shoulder, and it took Alfred a moment to realize the other him had made his way around the table, and was standing beside him.

Alfred jolted away, slapping the hand back. "How?" he forced out. "How do you know all this? Why can you feel it, if I can't?"

"Because," his double began, pulling back the offending hand. "I'm the result of that accession. I didn't realize it before, but I feel it now. They founded a new country. They founded me."

He turned away, glassy blue eyes gazing through the nearby window. The sun was just above the tree line now, splaying rays of warm light through the window, illuminating the still-frozen air around them.

His double's next words pierced through the resonance of Alfred's gasping breaths.

"They founded the Confederate States of America."


	14. Past (Part II)

**AN: I know it's been about a bajillion years since I last updated, and honestly, guys, I am so sorry. I am actually a piece of shit. Seriously. I apologize. ****But alas, here I am, with another chapter. For anyone interested, I recently edited and revamped all previous chapters. I mean, the basics are still the same, but at least I won't get embarrassed as hell re-reading them for reference anymore. Gleghk. So if you're about that life, feel free to refresh your memory with a little re-reading. (It's only, what, 60k words? No biggie, right?)**

**Anyway, with sincere apologies to all those who waited like a year of hiatus for my lazy ass to get this shit done, I present: flashback chapter part two. Have at it.**

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><p>They hadn't expected to be pushed back in to the small town of Gettysburg; and they wouldn't have been, if they had managed to hold their positions past the eve of the first day. But the Confederate troops swelled in and swept through the fields surrounding the small trading town, surprising them with their speed and their rigor. They lost a large part of the high ground, the tactical location they so desperately wanted to hold. The Union's lines collapsed, soldiers retreating through the streets. The few civilians that were still out were sent scurrying back to their homes, many families holing down in fortified rooms, fearful of looting or… worse.<p>

Alfred was jogging purposefully down the wide streets. His squad was ahead of him, trotting along with rifles locked against their chests, bayonets pointing up towards the air. The roads were nearly bare, the sounds of pounding footsteps and clinking metal echoing off the small, tightly-packed houses that lined the streets.

It felt empty and dead, and Alfred found himself hating it.

His squad marched to a stop at the end of the road as the soldiers leading the group paused to gather their bearings and converse amongst each other. The troop needed to be led to the south end of town, where the full regiment was supposed meet back up—a hastily made plan born of the panic of collapsing lines and charging enemies.

Alfred grimaced, straightening his back as he attempted to ease the strain of holding the rifled musket in his arms. It really shouldn't have bothered him, given his usual strength, but his body was weary from burden of war, and there had been a persisting ache in the center of his back since the last major conflict in Virginia.

"We'll continue eastward from here until we reach the fence that surrounds the town, then follow that southward." The voice carried over the small crowd, its speaker standing somewhere up at the front. Alfred repositioned himself along with the others at the company's rear, getting set to continue their march.

He frowned. A small, muffled sound – far too quiet for those of normal hearing to perceive – had caught his attention. Among the sounds of ragged breathing and shifting equipment there was the intermittent noise of something hitting solid wood. Alfred blinked, tilting his head slightly to the side as he strained to locate the source of the sound.

Twisting around so that he could peer into the darkened lane across the street, Alfred spotted what looked like a trio of people pressed up against the side of a small house. The tallest of the three was beating her fists against a closed wooden door. Alfred watched as the woman struggled unsuccessfully, the speed of her attempts beginning to pick up in what looked like panic. Giving one last look back to his company, Alfred ducked stealthily away from the back of the group and trotted down the shadowed pathway.

"Ma'am?" he called out gently, hoping not to startle her. "Is everything all right here?"

The woman, who had taken a short step backwards at his arrival, released a breath of pent up air. "Wh- What do you want?" she asked in a rush, body tense and posture untrusting. Her arms were out, pushing the children – a young boy and girl – behind her.

Alfred took in their dishevelled appearances before glancing questioningly at the door they were clearly locked out of. He then returned his gaze to the young woman, smiling disarmingly, hoping the gunpowder and dried blood that surely stained his clothes and skin didn't make him look too threatening. "Do you need some help, miss?" He gestured to the door. "It's about to get pretty dangerous out here, so we should probably get you all inside."

Alfred kept his posture easy and relaxed, willing to wait as the woman gathered herself. The children, meanwhile, were crowded behind her long skirt, watching him with curious eyes. He smiled back, causing them to duck back out of sight, though he thought he might have heard an excited giggle from the younger of the two.

"We've been locked out."

Alfred returned his attention back to the woman, schooling his expression into something casual and unworried. "This your house?" he asked, titling his head in a nod towards the house in question.

"My brother's. Yes."

"And you got stuck out here, I presume, during this latest development?"

The woman wiped at her eyes. "James and Hannah were still outside. I wanted them to come back in. I didn't think we'd be locked out if-" the beginning of a dry sob escaped through her lips, and her hands hurriedly pressed over her mouth. "Sorry, sorry," she mumbled.

"It's all right," Alfred said, still smiling gently. "I'll help you sort this right out." He bent down as he eased the rifle strap over his head and off his shoulders. Resting the gun on the ground, he stood again, trying to keep the persisting aches from his stiff actions from showing on his face. The past few months had been hard for Federal troops, and with this recent invasion of Confederate forces into Union territory, Alfred's body was slowly starting to betray him.

Plastering a docile grin on his face, he turned towards the anxious group in front of him. "Ma'am," he started, but the young woman cut in before he could continue.

"Ginnie," she said, eyes on the ground. "I can't stand to have you keep calling me ma'am like that. Just Ginnie is fine, please."

"All right, Ginnie," he said, offering out his hand to her in greeting. "You can call me Alfred." As she tentatively grasped his hand in response, Alfred continued. "Now tell me Ginnie, this house, it's your brother's, right? Does he happen have any particular attachment to this door here?"

The woman frowned, shaking her head. "Not that I'm aware of," she said, sounding only slightly confused.

"Good to hear." Alfred positioned himself in front of the door with a deep breath. This was going to hurt, likely, what with his already aching body, but he figured that in the overall scheme of things, a bruised shoulder wouldn't hold him back too much. "You may want to take a few steps back." He glanced down at the children before adding, "Them too."

"You're going to break down the door?"

Alfred shrugged apologetically. "It'll be the quickest way to get you three inside. Besides, a piece of wood can always be replace, but human lives are one of a kind."

Turning his attention from Ginnie's wide eyes to the door, Alfred judged the best place to hit it such that the lock would merely give in instead of the door splintering into pieces. He wanted it to still be usable as a barrier after this was all said and done. Who knew what kind of hellfire would come raining through the town after the during or after the nest battle.

Which reminded him, he needed to get this done quickly so that he could focus on find his company again.

He braced his forearms against his chest, bent his knees, and angled himself towards his target. With a deep breath, Alfred took four short, powerful steps towards the door and then launched himself against it.

The door held shape but buckled inwards, swinging open into the house. Alfred's momentum brought him a few feet in to a small kitchen. Quickly reaching out to stop the door from slamming into the opposite wall, Alfred shook his head, ignoring the rush of pain to his upper arm and back. He hadn't used nearly close to his full strength, but the action still aggravated his weary body. Composing himself, he turned back to the hesitant trio, stepping aside to allow the group to enter the house.

"There you are, Ginnie. Problem solved."

The young boy grinned and rushed forward heedlessly, little feet pounding on the wooden floor as he darted past Alfred.

Ginnie quickly followed, dragging the remaining child along. "Thank you," she told him, expression flustered and a bit apologetic. She then stepped past him and called down the darkened hallway. "James! James, please get back here! We must get in to the cellar right away!"

She started across the kitchen, her daughter still at Alfred's side.

A single shot cracked through the air, an unseen rifle going off from somewhere nearby. Alfred was already moving when a window shattered, but he was nowhere near fast enough to stop the solid, sickening impact of a bullet tearing through the delicate socket of Ginnie's right eye.

She was already dead by the time he met her collapsing body.

Alfred fell to his knees, the weight of Ginnie's body heavy in his arms. He could feel a sticky warmth already beginning to pool in the palms of his hands and dripping slowly down his sleeves.

He should have been used to the sudden and violent nature of death by now; in a way, he was. His aching body and blank mind didn't even register the loss of yet another one of his citizens.

A new sound had him pulling his gaze away from Ginnie's corpse. The young boy was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes wide and mouth trembling. To his side, Alfred could hear the small, screeching voice of the girl, already sobbing.

He let out a shaky breath, moving in what felt like slow-motion as he laid the body gently down on the floor. He shifted back, still on his knees, ignoring the squelch of blood beneath him. He wished desperately the children would look away. He wished they didn't have to see this.

"Hey," he said softly, gaining the fragmented attention of the small children. "Hannah, and James, right? Look at me, okay? Look here." Alfred kept his eyes resolutely off the gruesome sight in front of him, focusing instead on those he knew he might still be able to help.

"Do you know where the cellar is?" he asked, watching as wide, uncomprehending stares flickered over his shoulder. "That's the cellar, right? That's where you guys wanted to go. Can you two go there now, please?" He kept his voice calm but insistent. He didn't know who or what was still prowling beyond that shattered window, but he had a sickening feeling that the bullet lodged in Ginnie's skull wasn't just some stray shot.

With a little more coaxing, Alfred managed to get the children through the door, listening past muffled sobs as uneven steps stumbled down its rickety stairs. Still within the kitchen, he remained crouched near the wall, hypersensitive to any sound or movement from outside.

It was with sudden and painful clarity that he remembered the rifle he had left resting on the ground in the alleyway.

"Stupid," he cursed himself, hands absentmindedly grasping at empty air. "How could I have been so goddamned stupid?"

Alfred crept carefully back towards the entrance. He hoped he would be able to grab the gun, quickly scan the area, and then come back to resolve the issue of the children before moving on to rejoin his unit. The loss of the young mother would weigh heavy on him for the next while, but he had been in enough wars to have become desensitized to death's cruelty.

What he was really worried about were the now motherless children it would leave behind.

But right now he had more important things to worry about. Still in a crouch, he reached the kitchen's entrance, finally peering around the corner of door to carefully scan the alley.

His rifle was gone.

"I don't think I've ever met a bigger idiot than you."

Alfred barely had a chance to brace himself before the stock of his missing rifle connected with the side of his head. His entire skull reverberated with the hit, a sharp stinging pain just above his eye alerting that the contact had broken skin. Alfred stumbled heavily into the door frame, feeling the first trickle of blood catching at his eyebrow and dribbling down his cheek.

"Who just leaves their only rifle laying around on the ground like a damn toy?"

With his eyes scrunched shut against the throbbing in his skull, Alfred missed the next strike, which took him just under his chin. His head snapped back, and the darkness behind his eyelids flared briefly white.

A hit to his upper ribs followed, strong enough to knock him all the way down. Alfred's hands failed to stop his fall as they scraped against the dirt road. He landed heavily on the ground, body bent over itself in a haze of pain, head pounding. He twisted around just in time to see dusty black boots coming to a pause beside his head.

"But I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less from an _imposter_ like you."

Alfred ignored the venomous words, opting instead to focus on pushing himself back up, but before be could, the boots took a quick step forwards, and a hard kick slammed into his side. Pain flared along his bruised ribs as he was flipped over onto his back.

Alfred coughed while a sharp, metallic taste flooded his mouth. Instinctively, his arm came up in anticipation of an additional blow. When it was not immediately forthcoming, Alfred's eyes flickered open, looking past his raised forearm and blinking up at a painfully familiar face.

It was a face he hadn't seen since over a year ago, when he had finally decided to leave his capital and the house the two of them had been hoarded up in all winter to join up with a regular infantry company under an alias. He hadn't thought he would be able to live with himself if he simply continued to sit through countless war meetings with stern, faceless generals, planning up battle strategies that would slaughter their own men for a couple extra acres of forest. He had been sick and tired of playing with their strategies as if their manpower was infinite, as if the boys and men they were sending to their graves could easily be replaced, as if they were just pieces on some game board instead of actual human beings.

Alfred had been sick of feeling like he was fighting _against _his own people, when he so desperately wanted to be fighting _with _them, _for _them.

Alexander glared down at Alfred's crumpled form with posture just a bit too rigid and eyes just a bit too wide. "You know, it gets real fuckin' tedious after a while, hearing everybody calling some ody else _your _rightful title."

"What are you talking about?" Alfred groaned, shifting away from where the other loomed over him. "Why are you even–"

Alfred's eyes widened as Alexander snarled and took another quick step towards him, leg poised to deliver another kick. He turned into the strike, latching onto Alexander's foot as it collided into his stomach. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he twisted over to his other side, dragging Alexander down with him.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing," Alfred exclaimed, breathless. "But this is insane."

Alexander ignored him, kicking out again as they wrestled along the ground. "You're wrong! You're _wrong_!" he kept shouting.

Alfred managed to detach himself for only a moment, scrambling further away from the man in front of him on his elbows and heels. His head was pounding with each ragged breath, making his vision swim. Alexander, looking much better than he felt, was quick to follow. Alfred fought down the rising panic at the dangerous glint in his eyes and the frenzied, sloppy speed of his motion.

He looked like he had lost his mind.

"Alexander, enough!" he begged.

"_I'm not Alexander_!" Something seemed to snap, and Alfred found himself suddenly pinned down by a knee in his chest and a hand twisted among his hair. "I don't care what fucking name you've decided to call me. You don't have the _righ_t to be Alfred. You don't have the right to decide who's who or who gets called what anymore. I'm sick and tired of fighting this losing war for this pathetic fucking country that _I don't even represent._ I'm not the South!," he seethed. "I'm the real one, and I've _always_ _been_ the real one."

Alfred barely had time to brace himself before a fist came hurtling down. The strike connected with the side of his face, causing the back of his head to slam down onto the hard ground beneath him. Spots danced in front of his vision, partially obscuring the wild form above him.

"I'm not Alexander!" This time the hit took him on the opposite cheek, and Alfred felt the bone underneath his eye buckle inward as he cried out. His arms rose up in a useless defence, easily swiped aside.

"_I'm_ Alfred!" Another hit.

"I'm the United States of America!" And another.

Alfred couldn't breathe, his head pounding, his thoughts scrambled, with only one panicked desire discernible.

_I have to get away_.

Swinging out blindly, Alfred hand's fumbled against a clothed torso. His fingers fisted in the dirty blue uniform as he wrenched his hands backwards. The sudden action pulled Alexander off-balance, and by the time he stumbled to the ground next to him, Alfred was already twisting away and launching himself unsteadily to his feet.

His escape was cut short as he pitched into the wall of a house, kicking away hands around his ankles that threatened to pull him back down. His eyes were open, but he could barely see for the pain-induced haze that clouded his vision. Thoughts fell away before he could grasp them. His head felt heavy, almost as if he was underwater.

From within the alley behind him, a bubbling laughter erupted.

"You." Alexander was already on his feet, watching Alfred's struggle with a twisted smile. "You think you can get away? You think you can keep this up for much longer?" He shook his head, chastising. "Not when you're up against a _real _nation. Not when you're up against _me_."

Alfred pushed himself from the wall, giving up his support in favour of stumbling further down the darkened roadway. He felt the presence behind him following, but it was slower than before. Alfred wanted to move faster, to run, but the world was sliding rapidly sideways, and suddenly his knees were on the ground again. He stopped himself from falling over completely, but his meagre progress had been halted. Alexander laughed again, sounding thrilled by this new development, his tone pitched in all the wrong ways.

"Don't you see?" He was suddenly directly behind him. "You're weak! You're wrong! You're _nothing_!"

Alexander effortlessly snatched his arm, jarring Alfred around to face him. Then, in one nearly thoughtless move, he twisted and _pulled_, snapping the bone at the elbow. Alfred screamed, vision darkening at the edges, legs giving out. The world lurched, and Alfred could just barely hear Alexander's broken laughter through the rushing in his ears.

Dimly, Alfred realized that the only thing keeping him from falling once again to the ground was Alexander's grip on his mangled arm. He was dangling just above the dirt, all but lying down, the broken limb keeping his his upper body suspended in the air. Alexander's face was suddenly very close, ginning in a very unnatural way.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing," he repeated, muttering the single word over and over to himself until it began to lose its meaning altogether. Alfred felt darkness encircling him with the sweet promise of unconsciousness.

Alexander stood back, then started walking away, down the alleyway and towards the edge of town. He kept his grip on Alfred's arm firm, dragging his limp form behind him and into the enveloping darkness of the evening. Alfred felt the broken shards of bone grate against each other, and as the newest wave of agony washed over him, his eyes rolled involuntarily up into his head.

The sound of Alexander's laughing followed him in to oblivion.

xXx

He awoke with a gasp, too sharp and too loud in the stale, cold air of his makeshift prison. He was shaking, drenched in cold sweat and spit and piss and blood, and shaking shaking shaking—

He couldn't move, but couldn't stop moving. He tried to gather his limbs, summon his strength, push himself upright. He couldn't.

He was missing an arm.

Decades of experience taught him not to speak, not to cry out, but he couldn't help but let out a breathless, pained whimper at the realization.

He was missing an arm. His left arm this time.

It would grow back. They always did. Just like how all his scars healed over. It would grow back. It would—

He didn't remember losing it, and that worried him.

He struggled for a moment, but the chains bounding his ankles clattered noisily as he flailed, causing him to freeze in fear.

What if _he_ heard?

But that was impossible, he realized after a moment. _He _wasn't home. _He _wasn't even in the country.

_I would still be able to feel it if he was._

Would he though? he wondered disjointedly. He didn't even feel it when he lost an _arm_, so how could he be so sure he could still feel—

He was missing an arm. The realization hit him with full force this time, begging his undivided attention. He uncurled himself slowly – still trembling, but not as much as before – and attempted to take further stock of his injuries.

It was too dark to see much but for rusted metal of the chains and the sallow, slightly purple discolouration of his visible flesh. A loose shirt and some ragged pants with only half a pant-leg still attached covered him, but again, he couldn't remember when or how they had gotten on his body.

The left sleeve hung limp across his chest.

His vision spun, bile rising up in his throat involuntarily. He might have thrown up, but he didn't want to dirty the only clean corner of the floor he had left.

He closed his eyes, willing away the nausea.

Time stopped, then started again, almost without pause. It happened so fast it felt unfair, like he hadn't even been given a chance to try to keep up. Suddenly he was laying down again, face pressed against the stone, but he still couldn't remember how-

It was 2014.

Last time he had been awake – _truly_ awake – it had been 2011.

Three years.

Like the blink of eye. Like no time had even passed at all.

He had missed three years.

He shot up, scrambling madly backwards, away away away—

From what? There was no one there. He was alone.

But he was afraid. He was afraid just like he always was when _he _showed up. When he heard the door open. When angry footsteps came crashing down the stairs. When the lights flared on blindingly in their brief, irregular intervals.

The lights had always meant _he_ was staying for a while. The lights had always meant _he_ wanted to see his handiwork, chained and trembling in the corner.

The lights had always meant pain.

But it was dark now. Now now now – whenever that was.

Right. It was 2014. He knew that already, didn't he?

It was dark and he was alone. He gasped for breath, feeling light-headed.

He was alone.

He tried to reconcile the comforting thought with this new, unprecedented feeling of panic.

He was alone.

Alexander wasn't there.

He shivered in the cold, curled on the damp stone of the cellar he had been chained in for over a century and a half. Clarity was dancing at the fraying edges of his mind for the first time in what felt like centuries. He blinked several times, casting his gaze about the empty room desperately, but desperate for _what _he didn't know. It felt like it was the first consciously decided movement he had ever made. It felt like he was coming out of some kind of trance.

He had missed three years.

_Three whole years._

He wanted to sob, but wasn't quite ready to trust his voice just yet. Some distant, scarred part of him was telling him that making noise was a bad idea, that when he made noise _he _got mad. He willed the thoughts away, like swallowing down an unpleasant taste, refusing to let himself get stuck in that trance of fear again.

He closed his eyes, still struggling to maintain deep, even breaths, and allowed himself a moment to stretch out imaginary limbs, casting them across the endless skies and rolling hills of his vast country. He heard the lapping of lazy waves against the shores of the Keys, traced the gold-lined mountains of Alaska like the veins beneath his skin, soared out over the empty chasms of the Grand Canyon.

Dawn rose over the Atlantic coast. His people lived. His heart kept beating.

Alexander wasn't in the country. He knew it with a bone-deep certainty.

Alexander wasn't in his country.

"My country," he growled, voice low and harsh and rough from disuse.

But Alexander was going to come back, sooner or later, just like he always did. He knew that too.

Alfred opened his eyes, returning to the present, returning to his prison.

He was aware of himself outside of the small, vacuum-like world of his captivity. He was aware in ways he hadn't been in decades. He was aware of one frantic thought.

_I need to get the fuck out of here._


	15. Aftermath

**AN: I'm telling you, when my writing muse gets kicking, I can whip these chapters out like the damn printing press on steroids**

* * *

><p>It took until around midnight for the doctors to start completely ignoring them.<p>

When they had first arrived, in the immediate wake of a case as unexpected and chaotic as Arthur's, things had been rather hectic, to say the least. Francis had raced inside the hospital the moment his car was parked, with Matthew following only after giving Kumajiro direct orders to stay safely in the car and behave himself.

At first it had seemed as if every available staff member had been whisked away to help treat Arthur, but eventually, some haggard-looking nurses had stumbled in to the waiting room to drag Matthew and Francis off in separate directions.

After being checked over for burns, treated for smoke inhalation, and finally allowed to clean himself up, the barrage of questioning began.

Matthew wasn't unaware of the irony of knowing the answers to questions like 'Do you know who might have done this to him?' and yet being completely unhelpful when asked for the simple details of Arthur Kirkland's medical history. If Arthur _was _currently taking any prescribed medications, _Matthew _certainly hadn't been informed about it.

Still, after answering _I don't know_ more times than he could count, Matthew was starting to feel almost as frustrated as his interrogators surely must have been with his lack of knowledge.

Following this, he had finally been allowed to return to the waiting room, where he was joined shortly afterwards by Francis, still looking somewhat in shock. They sat together in mutual discomfort over the next several hours. Occasionally, Francis would stand to pace in poorly-held agitation, or tap his foot impatiently. Matthew, for his part, felt almost too exhausted to move, but was still far too anxious to let his guard down for even a moment.

Every time someone even remotely professional-looking passed by the glass doors of the waiting room, Francis would spring to his feet, demanding news about Arthur's operation, about whether or not he was in stable condition yet, about when they would be allowed to see him. Each time, his frenzy was met with bland apologies and false promises to check in on the operation's progress for them.

This process was repeated multiple times, and then, eventually, not at all, as one by one, the staff became wary enough to start taking the long way around the waiting room when travelling through the halls.

It was around this time that Matthew found himself perched awkwardly on a padded bench with his knees drawn up to his chest, eyes lazily trailing Francis as he completed his periodic pacing of the room.

Given so much time alone with his thoughts, Matthew's mind began to wander. Despite being almost absolutely certain of Confederacy's role in Arthur's near-death, he kept second-guessing himself, struggling to come up with scenarios in which his brother's supposed doppelgänger had nothing to do with the horrors that had been inflicted upon Arthur. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to come up with a single one.

Another worry that continued to plague him was the knowledge of his own guilt in the matter. If he was going with the assumption that it really _was _Confederacy that had done this, then the only possible explanation Matthew could think of as motivation behind the attack was if his conversation with Arthur yesterday after the conference had somehow been overheard.

That meant his other _interesting _conversations were also susceptible to have been eavesdropped in on.

That meant Russia and the Italy brothers could still be in danger.

_And so could I, for that matter._

Matthew's eyes flickered anxiously to the entrance, as if expecting Confederacy to come barging in at any moment. He swallowed an uneasy lump that was beginning to rise in his throat, fighting to keep himself in check.

Logically, he knew it would make sense to call the others, or at the very least, to call Russia. North Italy and South Italy hadn't really seemed too keen on being involved to begin with, but Matthew knew for certain Russia would want to be informed of this latest development in their so-called 'case.' Despite how much he desperately didn't want to, he recognized he had to do _something_. If there was a chance they were in danger, then he needed to warn them about it.

Having come to this decision, Matthew slowly began to untangle himself, stretching his legs out stiffly beneath him as he stood. It wasn't until he was almost out of the room that he heard a voice call out to him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. Francis stood across the room, watching him with a frown, arms crossed guardedly over his chest. "You're not just leaving, are you?"

"No." Matthew's voice was wispy and faint from disuse, his throat still somewhat sore from all the smoke it had suffered through. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No, I'm just stepping out for a second. I need to, um… I need to make some calls."

"Calls?" Francis demanded incredulously. "To _whom_? What is _so very important _that it must be dealt with _now_, of all times?"

Before Matthew could even begin to think of an excuse, Francis pressed on. "Besides, you can't just _walk away_ and leave me here with no explanation. I mean, really." He began waving his hands about in growing hysteria as he rambled on. "First there's that bear of yours acting like some harbinger of doom and telling me to 'go' and 'help,' and then _you _begin acting strangely too, and now you're jumping at everything and you're sulking in your little corner over there and it's _obvious _you're lying when you say, 'Oh no, I don't know _anything _about who did this, or why, or how! No way, not me!'" he pitched his voice in an odd accent, completing the imitation. "And now you're just going to 'step out' and 'make some calls' and still not tell me _anything_?"

Matthew stared at Francis in shock as the other nation finished his completely unexpected tirade before collapsing into the closest chair. As the significance of Francis's words began to wash over him, he dropped his gaze, fidgeting nervously.

Perhaps he hadn't been terribly _subtle _about his unease, but he had thought Francis would simply pass it off as concern or shock. He hadn't known Francis had even been paying him enough attention to notice something was off in the first place.

Matthew hesitated, unsure of what to say next. He knew there really wasn't any point in trying to keep it a secret – especially given everything Francis had already seen – but Matthew still wasn't sure how to go about trying to explain it without once again sounding like a raving lunatic.

At his prolonged indecision, Francis glanced up, eyes narrowing. "Don't you dare start trying to think up excuses." His tone turned severe as he stood once more, crossing the room to stand directly in front of his ex-colony, as if trying to block his escape. "Matthew. I need you to be honest with me, please. Arthur was nearly just _killed,_" his voice broke on the word, like it pained him to say it, "and I need to know why. What's really going on here?"

Matthew found he still couldn't quite meet Francis's eye, but after a long moment of debating his options, he finally relented. "Okay, look," he began, twisting his hands together nervously. "You're right. There is– I mean, at least, I'm _fairly certain_ there is something else going on here."

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Francis moved a step backwards, his expression softening slightly. "What is it, _mon cher_?" he asked, a new wrinkle of concern beginning to crease his brow.

Matthew glanced around, unsure if the halls were still empty or not, shifting his weight from foot to foot in indecisively. "I can't—Now's not really the best time to—" He took a deep breath, straightening his posture. "I promise I _will _tell you everything, just not right now, okay?"

At Francis's visible skepticism, he reiterated. "There's a lot you need to know before I can get in to the specifics of what happened to Arthur; and I'll tell you all of it, I swear. But right now I _really _need to make some calls. There are some people that might still be in danger, and I need to warn them."

"In danger?" Francis asked, looking much less self-confident than he had moments ago. "Of the same thing that happened to Arthur?"

Matthew just nodded.

"_Mon dieu_," Francis shook his head, suddenly looking utterly exhausted. He took another small step backwards, raising his hands in surrender. "You know what? Fine. Go do whatever it is you need to do."

Matthew offered a weak smile in thanks. "I'll be right back," he promised, darting away before Francis could change his mind.

Once outside, he made his way quickly across the parking lot to where he had parked Francis's car on their way in, shivering slightly as the faint breeze combined with the cool midnight air began to seep through his light jacket. Inside the car, Kumajiro was pawing incessantly at the window. Matthew unlocked the door and let him out, watching as he made his way to a nearby patch of grass and began sniffing around.

He sighed, leaning heavily against the side of the car, and ran a shaky hand through his hair. After a long moment of mental preparation, he fished his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and stared at the screen numbly, trying desperately to think of what he would say.

Unsure that he would even be able to make himself go through with calling Russia, he opted instead for scrolling through his list of professional contacts until he found South Italy, hitting call before he could lose his nerve.

The phone on the other end of the speaker rang several times with no answer. It was just long enough that Matthew was beginning to hope no one would pick up. Realizing this meant he would have to leave a message, he began to panic slightly, but his spiral of dread was cut short when, on the fifth ring, a soft _click _was heard.

"Do you have any idea what fucking time it is, you fucking fuckface?"

Taken aback at the hostility in his voice, Matthew struggled for a moment to apologize. "I know— South Italy, I'm sorry, I just—"

"You literally have five fucking seconds to make this call worth my time or else I am hanging the fuck up," came the stubborn response, heedless of Matthew's attempt at explanation.

"I could have waited but I thought—"

"Five."

Matthew blinked, realizing South Italy had actually been serious in his threat.

"Four."

"Wait!" he called out, voice rising in alarm. "Just hang on! I'm trying to tell you—"

"What? You're trying to tell me what?"

"There's been an attack. England's been attacked," he finally managed, nearly choking out the words. The admission seemed to have the desired effect, as, for the first time, he was met with dead silence. Matthew bit down on his tongue, swallowing nervously in anticipation.

"What did you just say?" South Italy sounded strained, as if daring him to retract the words. There was the sound of movement from the over the phone, and then more words, this time in a hushed tone. "Did you just say an attack? _England_ was attacked?"

"Yes," Matthew confirmed, suddenly feeling unsteady. He griped the car's door handle with his free hand for support. The movement caught the attention of Kumajiro, who came trotting over to sit down by his feet, where he continued to peer up at him. "Someone came into his house and attacked him. He made it out, but it's bad. Really bad. He's in the hospital right now. That's why I called. I'm trying to warn you."

"_Warn_ me?" South Italy demanded. "Why?"

Matthew closed his eyes. "Because," he breathed. "I think it was Confederacy that attacked him. I think—I think maybe he overheard me talking to Arthur about him. And—"

"And you think I might be next." It wasn't even a question.

"I don't know for sure, but if he really _has _been listening in, then there's a chance he might know I've been talking to you and your brother too," Matthew said.

There was another long moment filled with the sounds of muffled movement before South Italy once again returned to the phone. "Okay," he said, sounding slightly breathless and seeming for a moment to struggle for words as well. "Okay," he repeated. "I'm at my brother's right now. I was going to drive home in the morning. What should… What should we do?"

Matthew nearly laughed at the irony of someone asking _him _for advice when he didn't even know what _he_ was supposed to do. "Honestly, I have no idea," he admitted, feeling his legs begin to buckle involuntarily as he sank slowly to the ground. "This only happened about four or five hours ago. And I mean, you're all the way in Italy, right? That's a long drive. So I think you're probably safe for tonight, at least," he reasoned.

"Yeah, you're probably right," South Italy agreed, but it sounded like it was born more out of desperation than it was of actual logic.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you sooner but I've just been so—"

"No, no, it's fine," South Italy cut into his babbling sharply. "I get it."

"And I still need to call Russia," Matthew confided thoughtlessly. He didn't know why he was telling his to _South Italy, _but he just couldn't seem to stop talking all of the sudden. "I need to warn him too, you know? He'll definitely want to know what happened."

"Okay, yeah," South Italy said, sounding somewhat hesitant. "Yeah, you should probably… do that, I guess."

"Probably," Matthew agreed.

"So I'm going to hang up now, okay?" South Italy informed him. "And you're going to call the Russian bastard."

Matthew nodded, then, realizing he couldn't be seen, said, "Okay."

"And Williams?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about England. I know he and you have a pretty close history together, or whatever. I hope the bastard doesn't, I don't know, die, or some shit." The words sounded reluctant, but sincere, and the apology was so unexpected that Matthew barely even registered the proper use of his name. It rendered him completely silent, and by the time he finally had his wits about him again, South Italy had already hung up.

Matthew pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it in a detached sort of manner while Kumajiro clambered up silently onto his lap. The bear gave him an inquisitive look, as if to say 'What now?'

Matthew sighed.

Now he had to call Russia.

xXx

It had been just over ten minutes since Matthew had stepped out to make his oh-so-important _calls_.

Whoever he was calling and whatever they were talking about, Francis had, once again, no idea. But apparently, it was _far_ more crucial than actually explaining to him just what the hell was going on.

Because Matthew definitely knew what was going on. Of that, Francis was certain.

After everything he had already been through over the past several hours, Francis would have thought nothing else could have fazed him, but the knowledge that Matthew refused to share with him continued to plague his mind without rest, nearly causing him to seethe. He just couldn't understand why Matthew would keep something so clearly imperative – so clearly _dangerous_ – from him.

Especially after what had happened to Arthur.

Francis closed his eyes against the onslaught of frightful images that came with the thought. He willed away visions of searing flames and the crumpled, bloodied figure of his long-time rival and friend.

He was dragged away from his internal battle by the sight of a kind, elderly-looking nurse entering the room. "You the bloke who's been here all night for Mr. Kirkland?" she asked him.

Francis was on his feet almost instantly. "Yes. Is he…?"

She smiled reassuringly. "He can take a visitor or two now, if you want?"

Francis nodded vigorously, all his previous worries forgotten for the moment. He followed eagerly after the nurse as she led him slowly through the halls.

"He'll be out for a while," she informed him. "Try not to touch him though; he's hooked up to all sorts of tubes and wire we don't want moving around." They came to a stop in front of a tall white door with a clouded glass window. She opened it slowly, stepping back to allow him space to enter.

Francis's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into the room.

Arthur was, indeed, hooked up to all sorts of tubes and wires.

And he looked positively _awful._

Vivid bruises marred his face and the exposed skin of his arms, which rested across his stomach on top of pale blue blankets covering the bed. His right wrist was encased in a thick plaster cast, while his left leg was poking out from beneath the covers, also casted, and elevated by a hanging sling.

His skin was ashen, with dark bruises surrounding both of his closed eyes, causing them to seem like they were sinking into his flesh. His lips were parted to make room for a long, clear breathing tube, which connected to a nearby respiration machine.

"You're all right in here?" the nurse asked, still watching him from the doorway.

Francis nodded wordlessly, but moments later, was already barely aware of the sound of the door closing softly behind him. He continued to stare at Arthur's unnaturally still form for several more minutes, eyes flitting across and committing to memory each and every cut and scrape.

"Arthur," he sighed with a minute shake of his head. "Look at you." He threw himself down into a small plastic chair by the foot of the bed, dropping his head into his hands to avoid having to look at the harrowing scene before him any longer.

Taking deep breaths, he willed himself not to lose his temper. He couldn't afford to. Not here, and certainly not when he still didn't know what was out there.

Not when he still didn't know who had done this to Arthur.

A soft knock at the door caught his attention. He glanced up just in time to see the same nurse from earlier peering at him from the doorway. "There's another man here. He says he's your… son?" she relayed, looking unconvinced.

"Yes, of course." Francis waved away her apprehension. "Send him in." He had nearly forgotten about Matthew in all of his flurry over Arthur. He had probably been confused to find the waiting room empty when he'd come back inside.

Besides, that boy still had some serious explaining to do.

The nurse, still looking somewhat skeptical, stood back slowly, calling over her shoulder, "All right, lad. In you go."

From behind the fogged window, Francis saw a tall figure move, stepping into the doorway with slackened posture and a lackadaisical grin on his lips.

Francis blinked in surprise. "Amérique? What are you doing here?"


	16. Panic

**AN: I think the only reason I'm writing so much is because it's too damn cold to go outside. I'm a terrible Canadian.**

* * *

><p>Russia picked up on the first ring.<p>

"Привет?" A familiar voice, thick and rough from sleep, floated through the phone.

Still seated on the cold cement of the parking lot, propped up against Francis's car with his bear in his lap, Matthew began to stutter through an awkward introduction. But before he could even get his name out, Russia seemed to fully wake up, somehow realizing who it was he was speaking to.

"Matvey?" he asked, still using that same weird nickname from earlier. "Is something the matter?"

Given whatever ridiculous hour in was in Russia, and the fact that Matthew was even calling his home _at all_, it really wasn't all that far-fetched for Russia to assume the nature of the call to be that something definitely _was _'the matter.' What caught Matthew off-guard was that he sounded genuinely concerned.

After multiple bumbling attempts to condense the events of the night into one sensible explanation, Russia seemed to understand the gist of it. "When did this happen?" was his first question.

"Um, right now," Matthew said unintelligently. "I mean, I'm still at the hospital. We haven't—"

"No," Russia interrupted in his typical business-like fashion. "I mean when _exactly_?"

"I'm not sure." Matthew checked the clock on the screen of his phone. "Maybe four or five hours ago?" he estimated.

Russia hummed thoughtfully, which was followed by the sounds purposeful movement. "Where are you?" he asked after a moment. "In London, I presume?"

"Yeah, he's— we're at the Royal London Hospital, I think."

"Very well," Russia said, suddenly sounding much closer to the speaker. "I'm on my way."

Matthew sat motionless, mouth falling open. "Wh-_What?_"

"I'm coming to London," Russia said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I'll likely be there in a five or six hours' time. Will you still be at the hospital, or are you getting a hotel room?"

"Russia, wait," Matthew demanded. "Whyare you coming to London? Why would you _want_ to come to London? Especially _now_?"

When Russia spoke next, Matthew could practically _hear _the smile in his voice. "If that is where the action is, then that is clearly where I am needed most, _da_?"

Matthew was about to protest, but the Russian continued. "Unless, of course," he said snidely, "you think that you are better off handling this alone. If you truly believe you are capable of facing off with Confederacy without ending up in the same position as England, then please, don't allow me to stand in your way."

Matthew snapped his mouth shut, once again at a loss for words. He curled a loose fist into Kumajiro's soft fur, biting his lip as he worked over Russia's words in his head. "Okay, fine" he said at length. "You're right."

"I'm glad that's been decided."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Kumajiro, meanwhile, was beginning to whine softly, so he untangled his hand from the bear's fur and gave him a light scratch behind his ears.

"I will be seeing you soon, Matthew," Russia said. "Keep me updated on England's status, or if anything else of consequence should occur."

Before he even had a chance to agree, the line went dead.

Matthew sighed, dropping his hand and frowning down at the phone held within it. "I don't know why he always has to act so menacing," he complained to himself. "I mean, he's supposed to be on _our _side, right?" He switched his gaze to his bear, who glanced up at him curiously.

"Going back?"

Matthew sighed again, for what felt like he hundredth time that night. "Yeah, I should probably go back and make sure Francis hasn't annoyed any of the doctors to death or something."

Despite his light-hearted tone, Kumajiro continued to watch him with a scrutinizing gaze, looking almost concerned. "Okay?" he asked.

Matthew blinked at the rarity of such a question. "Yeah, Kuma," he lied easily. "I'm okay."

Kumajiro frowned, looking like he had more to say on the matter, then sniffled suddenly, tiny nostrils flaring and ears perking up.

Now it was Matthew's turn to feel concerned. "What is it?" he asked.

Kumajiro turned away, staring off across the darkened parking lot in the direction of the hospital. His posture was rigid, claws digging in just slightly to the soft flesh of Matthew's thighs.

"Not okay," he growled, still looking towards the hospital. "Not okay."

xXx

Francis was rambling.

He knew he was rambling too. He knew, logically, that it was rude to be talking so much, especially since America had only just arrived. He should have been asking the western nation about his trip, about when had heard the news regarding Arthur, about how he had even _gotten _there so fast. But instead, he was just rambling on and on about everything that had happened to him, every outrageous, terrifying thing he had borne witness to.

It was as if the knowledge of everything he had seen had been piling up on him all night long, and now that he was finally getting it off his chest, he just couldn't stop. Like a rapid stream of water, the story of his evening gushed forth from his mouth.

"One minute we were just driving along to Arthur's house and everything was fine and the next minute Matthew's bear was freaking out – did you know the bear could talk, by the way? – and Matthew said it thought something was _wrong_. So then I started getting worried. I mean, I didn't even really know what he was talking about, but I started thinking, well what if something _is _wrong?"

America hummed in easy agreement, leaning back in his chair, which was just across the small hospital room from Francis's. So far, that was all he had been doing. Between Francis's pauses for breath, he'd nod, or ask a simple question, or throw in a word or two of confirmation. Besides that, he remained in casual silence.

"Anyway, by the time we finally got there, the _whole upper floor _was on fire. Not only that, but once we actually got inside the house, there was blood _everywhere_, and everything was just in tatters! Oh, you should have seen it!"

"Is that so?" America asked, raising an eyebrow and looking just slightly amused.

"Well no, not really. It was actually quite horrifying."

"Hmm."

"So after that we went upstairs," Francis launched onwards, his heartrate picking up and his hands beginning to wave about in demonstration as he continued to explain. "Arthur had some sort of crazy magical barrier up over this door, which was just about the only one left standing in the _entire _house, by the way."

"And just how exactly did _you_ manage to break it down?" America asked, leaning forward suddenly. It was the most attentive he had looked so far, and probably the greatest amount of words he had spoken in a single sentence yet.

"I don't actually think _I _broke it down so much as it kind of just faded away. Arthur mustn't have had the strength to keep it up anymore," Francis said, thinking back over the memory with a frown of concentration.

America seemed to consider this for a moment before leaning back again, as if his interest had been lost. He looked almost… _disappointed. _"Too bad," he muttered to himself.

Francis was about to continue, but forced himself to stop as he processed this last sentence. He frowned, opening his mouth to question the meaning of the words when suddenly he was cut off by the door crashing open.

He gave a jolt of surprise, head whipping towards the entrance just in time to see Matthew, breathless and flushed, standing in the doorway. His chest was heaving, his hair in complete disarray, his eyes wide and watery and locked directly onto his brother.

America stood, the movement slow and deliberate.

And then he smiled.

The nurse poked her head in from behind Matthew, breaking the momentary tension. "Now, _technically _I'm not supposed to let any more than two people in here at a time, but since you lads," she nodded at Matthew and Francis respectively, "have been waiting up all night, I thought I'd make an exception."

Francis shot her an easy smile. "Thank you," he said earnestly.

"Not a problem, not a problem." She began to move back out into the hall. "You let me know if you need anything."

The door closed.

There was a long moment of silence and then...

Francis glanced back and forth between the two standing nations, waiting for one of them to say something. When it became apparent that neither of them were about to break the silence, he stepped in.

"Matthew," he said conversationally. "Did you finish making those important phone calls of yours?"

Unblinking violet eyes flickered rapidly over to him before flitting back to America. Matthew said nothing.

America's head tilted just slightly to the side. Unlike his brother, his posture was relaxed, his lips pursed together in a thin, knowing smile. "Phone calls, huh?" he asked. "Who were you calling, Mattie?"

Again, Matthew said nothing. He hadn't even made a single move to enter into the room. He remained frozen in the doorway, looking for the life of him like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than where he currently was.

Francis shot Matthew a perplexed look. "Anyway," he said slowly, hoping to change the topic of conversation—or, in Matthew's case, actually _start _a conversation. "Your brother just stopped in while you were gone, Matthew. I guess he heard about Arthur too. That's nice, isn't it?"

Once more, his attempt at conversation was met with heavy silence.

As neither nation appeared to be paying him attention any longer, Francis finally took a moment to examine the expression of growing terror on his ex-colony's face. This caused him to pause, suddenly uncertain as to it's origin. "Matthew?" he asked, voice low and cautious.

Still ignoring him, America took a single step forward. With that, inexplicably, his entire demeanour shifted. The room seemed to shrink in size as America straightened himself, his stride seeming suddenly like a stalk. A wide grin split his face, appearing to grow unnaturally large.

"You!" America clapped once, the unexpected sound of his hands smacking together causing both Matthew and Francis to give a small jump. "Mattie, Mattie, Mattie," he repeated the nickname, laughter twisting into the words. "You did it! You _really _did it!"

Francis's eyes narrowed, suddenly wary as he pushed himself to his feet to join the other two. He raised an arm, as if to pull America back, but the larger nation continued to move forwards, intent.

"Gold star, little bro, I mean it! Congratulations!" He shook his head, smiling in the same manner that a proud father might commend the simplest achievement of a young child. "You _did _figure it out… didn't you?" His voice dropped into a whisper, but the smile held as narrowed blue eyes roamed over Matthew, scrutinizing his guarded posture, his nauseated look of horror, the way he flinched just slightly at the volume of his brother's words.

And then he laughed. Nearly doubling over, his whole body shaking with it, America positively _howled _with laughter. "Oh, you _did_!" he all but shouted. "You finally, finally, _finally _did!"

Matthew took this moment to do something entirely unexpected. He moved _closer_. Skirting around America as he continued to laugh, Matthew came to a stumbling halt only once he was directly beside Francis, grabbing his arm and pulling him back a couple of steps so that they almost seemed to be standing as some sort of barrier between the hysterical America and where Arthur continued to lay on his bed.

Removing his glasses with one hand to wipe away tears of mirth with the other, America resumed his earlier speech. "Aw, this is just _perfect_. I mean, after all this time, _all these years_, you're the one who finally put it all together. You surprised me, bro." He twisted around, facing them both once more. "There were a couple people I was worried about for a while, but not you! Not sweet, innocent little Canada," he mocked. "And it _only_ took you one-hundred and fifty-one years."

At this point, Francis had accepted the fact that he well and truly had _no fucking idea_ what was going on. But Matthew was scared, that much was certain. He was scared of his brother, and though Francis had no way of knowing why, he himself was beginning to feel more than a little uneasy about America's new-found fanaticism, the way he seemed almost _rabid _with it. It was as if this conversation—if it could even be called one—was something he had been wanting to have for a _long _time.

Afraid to interrupt and unsure what he would even say if he did, Francis came to the educated decision to therefore remain silent. While listening to the so-far one-sided conversation hadn't really done much to clear up his confusion, he figured that was probably his best bet, given the level of intensity with which the current exchange was taking place.

Beside him, Matthew remained tense, his breathing shallow and his grip still firm on Francis's arm. He was still pale and stricken, but didn't seem as jittery as before. Francis was willing to take that as a good sign.

Unfortunately, his optimism was cut short as the sound the heart-monitor behind him began to speed up. Francis's eyes flickered to the side, wanting desperately to glance over his shoulder to check on Arthur, but he was wary of moving too much, lest he draw attention to the situation.

America, meanwhile, was still smiling maliciously. "Come on, don't be shy," he teased. "You should be _proud, _Mattie. You're the only one—after all—who ever managed to piece it all together." He paused, looking expectant. "What? Nothing? You got nothing to say? No courageous speech to make? Oh! Or threats?" He chuckled again, as if amused by the idea.

Behind Francis, the heart-monitor continued to beep, now accompanied by the sound of uneven, rasping of breaths through the long respiration tube.

"Wouldn't _that _be something?" America asked, clasping his hands together delightedly. "But I guess that's only to be expected. I mean, it's not like there's anything you could threaten me _with_, right? It's not like there's anything you could do to stop me, or- or to actually help _anyone_."

Breath in. Breath out.

"You're just a little too late for that, ain't you, Mattie?"

It's pace began to pick up.

"You couldn't help Cuba. You couldn't help England."

In.

"And you sure as hell couldn't help _Alfred_."

And out.

Matthew started boldly forward, pulling Francis behind him in one swift tug. He shifted his weight, standing almost protectively between America and the two nations behind him. His jaw was set, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He stared America directly in the eye.

"_Where_ is my brother?" he demanded, seething, practically trembling with the force of it. "What did you do to him?"

America's smile cracked.

"Why, Mattie! I'm right here!" he gushed, his voice just a few octaves too high.

The heart-monitor spiked abruptly, the rapid beeping capturing the attention of all three of the room's occupants for the first time. The rasping continued, stronger now, almost painful sounding.

Francis finally relented, turning around only to come face-to-face with the startling sight of Arthur sitting up, hands clawing at his face, gagging loudly on the rigid plastic tube within his throat. Francis was frozen in shock as wide emerald eyes flickered about wildly, finally seeming to take notice of the room's other occupants. Arthur's gaze flitted over Francis, then Matthew, then finally came to rest on America.

The heart-monitor pulsed with sudden, increasing speed as Arthur began to struggle with renewed fervour, pulling and tearing at whatever tubes or blankets or machinery he could reach.

Francis started forwards, hands out-stretched, placating. "Arthur!" he called out. "Arthur, calm down!"

When it became obvious that Arthur could no longer see or hear him in his state of panic, Francis settled instead for latching onto the Englishman's arms, trying as gently as he could to pin him in place so that he could not further agitate his wounds.

Behind him, euphoric laughter sounded out, and further away, the sound of approaching voices and footsteps could be heard, but Francis could not afford to pay them any mind. He focused instead on attempting to quell Arthur's growing state of frenzy as green eyes grew hazy and unfocused.

"Arthur," he tried. "Listen to me. You need to stay still. You need to— You're going to hurt yourself even more if you keep this up!"

Arthur continued to fight, seemingly unaware of Francis as struggled desperately against the hands holding him down. He began to cry out, trying to form words but continuously being obstructed by the tube still in his mouth. Matthew appeared beside him then, one hand pressed down on Arthur's legs to keep them from lashing out while the other remained outstretched to his side, almost as if warding America off from coming any closer.

America, for his part, made no such attempt. "Poor bastard," he commented casually on the disastrous scene before him. "Look at him, out of his damn mind with fear. He's probably going to be so embarrassed about this later. Heh, if only you would've let me finish the job when I had the chance back there." He pouted. "If only you hadn't interrupted my _fun_."

Francis whirled around. "_What?_"

He wasn't given a chance to hear America's response – if he even gave one – as suddenly, there was a flurry of movement by the door. Doctors and nurses alike came flooding into the room, looking flustered but business-like as they pushed past the tense trio standing in their ways.

"There's no way the anaesthesia should have worn off already!" an unseen voice called out.

"Somebody stabilize him, please," a woman commanded, shouldering her way past Francis as he felt several different pairs of hands latch onto him, pulling him away from Arthur and back out towards the hall.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you need to leave," a young nurse told him. Francis ignored him, glancing around desperately over a sea of people, looking for Matthew, and struggling only just slightly as he was forced out of the room.

America was the first one out, still smiling that deranged smile of his the entire time that he was pushed backwards through the doorway. By the time Francis finally stumbled out into the hall, he had lost sight of the American, and Matthew had somehow made it back to his side.

They both latched onto each other as the last few bodies shoved past them, closing the door to Arthur's room with a resounding slam. The sudden silence of the hall fell over him heavily while the chaos from the past few minutes continued to ring in his ears. Francis quickly surveyed the hall in attempt to gather his bearings, swivelling around twice before finally realizing that they were alone.

The hall was empty.

America was gone.

His gaze fell to Matthew, who was still glancing around wildly, stumbling slightly in his haste. "He's gone, he's— he can't just be _gone_," he mumbled, still looking back over his shoulder every few seconds, as if unsure he could trust his own sight.

Francis reached out to steady the Canadian, eyes wide in shock and still feeling slightly dazed.

"What," he began, faltering over the words, "the _fuck_ was _that_?"

Matthew's eyes locked onto his, blinking rapidly and brimming with fright.

"That…" he said, "wasn't Alfred."


	17. Surprise

**AN: This chapter is long and I am tired**

* * *

><p>The digital clock above the oven gave out a quiet beep as the hour changed, the figures it displayed blinking cheerfully to <em>9:00 AM.<em>

Tino was smiling to himself as he traversed the small kitchen, balancing three tall glasses of orange juice between careful hands. Setting them on the table, he glanced down to the seat already occupied by Peter, who grinned back at him. The younger boy snatched his glass, gulping down a greedy mouthful of juice.

"Make sure you eat everything this time," Tino told him, ruffling his hair. "Berwald works hard to make you breakfast. You shouldn't let it go to waste."

"Okay, _mom_." Peter rolled his eyes.

Tino's opened his mouth to protest the nickname when Berwald emerged from behind them, carrying plates stacked with roasted vegetables, toast, and grilled fish.

"Need some help with that?" Tino asked, stepping out of the taller man's way as he neared the table.

Berwald shook his head. "Still need utensils though."

"I'm on it!"

While Tino rummaged through the drawers and Berwald lowered each plate onto the table, Peter glanced around. From the front window, blurred movement caught his eye. He paused, squinting through the harsh sunlight at a distinctly person-shaped figure. Whoever it was seemed to be making their way up the driveway, their strides long and their arms swinging purposefully.

Tino returned, forks in hand, and paused to stand behind the shoulder of Peter's chair. Noticing the his attention had been drawn elsewhere, he followed Peter's gaze.

"Berwald?" he asked after a moment, capturing the other nation's attention as well. "Are you expecting someone today?"

Berwald shook his head, adjusting his glasses as he too looked out the window. The figure was much closer now, their features coming into sharper focus as they approached the house.

"Doesn't it kind of look like…" Peter trailed off, glancing over at the other two to gauge their expressions.

Berwald's lips were pressed together in a thin line, eyes narrowed in consideration.

"America?"

xXx

_Several Hours Previously_

Dawn broke just after 6 AM, and with it broke the dark, dreary atmosphere of the hospital. The shift switched over as new, fresh-faced doctors and nurses started to make their rounds, the waiting room slowly but surely filling up the empty chairs surrounding Matthew and Francis.

Life—or at least, some semblance of it—began to seep back into their surroundings.

It was a harsh contrast to the tense silence of the previous few hours.

True to his typical stubbornness, Francis had had them spend the entire night in the hospital. Understandably, he was reluctant to leave Arthur behind after everything that had happened.

And what almost could have happened.

Even now Matthew was on high alert, unable to believe that they had been left completely unscathed, completely free to go about their days. He couldn't understand why Confederacy would go through all of the effort of finding out which hospital Arthur had been brought to, getting there, and confronting them, just to _gloat_.

Just to prove once and for all that he _wasn't_ Alfred.

_And that I fell for it. For over a century, I didn't even recognize that he wasn't my brother._

Matthew felt his throat tightening, a tremor in his hands forcing him to still them by clenching them into fists. Seeing this, Francis shot him a questioning look.

It was probably the most the two had interacted in over three hours.

Earlier in the night, when they had finally calmed down enough to return to the waiting room, Francis hadn't even said a word. He'd simply stared at Matthew, his gaze sharp and unwavering, and Matthew had known instantly that putting off the explanation was no longer an option.

He had tried his best, in simple terms, to explain to Francis his reasoning for believing there to be a second America, and how their most recent encounter with him stood as evidence of that belief. He had explained, voice shaking just slightly, how Arthur's assault tied into the matter, and how he himself had been unintentionally responsible for it.

After the initial shock, disbelief, and outrage, Francis had fallen silent once more. Matthew didn't know if it was because he was still confused, or saddened, or angry with him. Any option seemed just as likely as the other, but Matthew couldn't find it within himself to even ask.

But looking at him now, Matthew saw blue eyes, old beyond his imagination, brimming with pure, unabated concern. He tried to smile in reassurance. It felt pathetically forced, and probably looked no better.

Just then, faint sounds disturbance from out in the hall caught Matthew's attention. Before he even knew it, he was on his feet, with Francis following directly behind him. Moments later, the waiting room doors flew open as a tall, prominent figure strode in.

Matthew let out a breath, the coiled tension dissolving from his body.

Never before had he thought he would be so relieved to see _Russia._

In all of the frenzy of the past few hours, Matthew had nearly forgotten he was even supposed to be coming. With his expression determined, clean and professional looking, Russia an enormous contrast to Matthew and Francis's haggard appearances. And yet, Matthew was suddenly stuck by how glad he was to have him on their side.

Francis, however, didn't seem comforted by this new development whatsoever. He glanced in confusion back and forth between the two other nations in the room. Matthew gave him an encouraging nod, hoping to silently communicate that this new arrival was an improvement to their situation.

But the conversation they and Russia would need to have in order to catch him up to speed wasn't one random ailing civilians should overhear, and Matthew was already well aware of the various looks of interest Russia's entrance had earned him. Without further hesitation, he took Francis's arm and began leading him out of the room. Russia stepped aside as they passed, then followed directly behind them.

Finding the foyer by the main entrance sparse, Matthew turned them back to face Russia.

"Canada, France." He nodded at them each in greeting, eyeing their rumpled clothes and sunken eyes. "I assume you've been here all night?"

"We have," Matthew confirmed.

"And how has our little English comrade been holding up?" he asked, as if the topic were one of casual conversation.

Matthew glanced to Francis to see if he wanted to answer the question, but Frenchman remained silent. He wasn't even looking at them.

Matthew sighed. "He's okay, all things considered. I mean, we only saw him for a couple of minutes, but then the anesthesia started wearing off, so they kicked us out."

"Us and the deranged psychopath trying to talk us all to death," Francis grumbled under his breath, still glaring at the floor.

Russia raised an eyebrow. "Confederacy was _here_?" He looked between them, as if wondering how they were even still alive.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Well, yeah. For a little while anyway."

"Well," Russia said, twisting around and starting towards the exit. "It appears we have _much_ to discuss. We may end up being here for a while after all. I suppose it was a good thing we had the sense to book you two a room as well, da?"

Matthew scrambled after him. Pushing through the doors, a cool breeze hit him, the bright light of the outside world slanting directly into his eyes. "_We_?" he demanded, lifting his hand to shade his eyes.

Russia shrugged, but said nothing.

Across the parking lot, standing guard beside Russia's car, was Belarus.

xXx

They had gotten them a penthouse suite.

At first Matthew had been more than a little uncomfortable with the idea. But after taking what qualified for the most luxurious shower of his life, finally changing into a more casual outfit then the suit he still had on from the conference, and ordering a steaming full-course breakfast, he couldn't really find it in himself to oppose the idea any longer.

Francis took over the washroom the moment he stepped out. Excused as he was, Matthew fell asleep only minutes later, Kumajiro climbing up onto the bed to seep heat from his side. Unfortunately, they were _both _woken up a short while later—far too short, in Matthew's opinion—by a phone call.

This time it was from Lovino, telling him that he and his brother were, apparently, _also_ on their way to London.

"What?" Matthew had asked, still only semi-awake. "Why?"

"Look, okay?" Lovino had snapped, sounding embarrassed. "I told my brother about what happened last night and he started freaking out. He thought we needed to be where there were other people who also knew was going on or else we were gonna' _die_ or some shit. And honestly? It's not like we've got anything here we can protect ourselves with, or anywhere else to go where that crazy bastard won't find us. I mean, if he managed to take down _England, _I don't think _we_ have a whole lotta' fucking hope."

Deciding there was no use in trying to argue with him, Matthew had relented, giving out the current location and status of their group.

That had been a few hours ago. Now, Matthew found himself relaying this very information to the small, incongruous-looking group of people scattered about his room, all the while nervously tracing his fingers through the fur of the small bear now resting in his lap.

Francis sat on the corner of one bed, looking entirely ill-at-ease. Russia stood across the room, leaning against the wall and nodding attentively along as Matthew explained the situation. Belarus, meanwhile, was perched elegantly on a plush sofa, legs crossed and fingers laced together.

She hadn't said a single word when she and Russia had entered the room, nor when the conversation had started up. Matthew found her presence unsettling, but didn't comment on it. He wasn't even entirely certain why she was there, or what information Russia had or had not already given her, but he definitely wasn't about to ask. Belarus, meanwhile, seemed content to sit in silence for the time being.

"Has there been any further news from the hospital regarding England?" Russia asked when Matthew was finished telling them about the Italy brothers.

"They called Francis earlier. He woke up again, but seemed to be doing a lot better. More… coherent, I guess," he mumbled.

Russia hummed, but didn't say anymore on the matter, switching the conversation instead to a more relevant concern. "You two," he nodded to Matthew and Francis respectively, "both seem relatively unharmed from your encounter with Confederacy. I wonder how that might have happened."

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked.

"Why didn't finish what he stared with England when he got another chance? And if we're to assume that it was because the two of you were there, then why didn't he simply rid himself of you as well?"

Matthew flinched at the blunt nature of Russia's words, speaking about death as if it were a trivial matter. "I'm not sure that was even his goal. I mean, at first, with Arthur, it obviously was. But I don't think he came to the hospital to 'finish what he started.'"

"What exactly makes you say that?" Russia asked, looking genuinely intrigued.

Matthew shrugged, buying himself time as he mentally constructed his answer. "I don't know for sure. I was confused at first too, but I've been giving it some thought, and I've realized that it really just didn't seem like he was looking for a fight. It was more like he was looking for something.

When Confederacy first showed up, I was outside," Matthew recounted, remembering his acute panic at Kumajiro's foreboding words while they had been sitting in the parking lot. "When I finally got back inside, it looked like he and Francis had just been sitting around in Arthur's room… Just talking." He glanced to Francis, who gave a small nod of confirmation. "He didn't even start threatening us or saying anything that might have given him away until he seemed certain that I knew what I knew."

"So he was looking for confirmation," Russia simplified. "Confirmation that you were truly on to him."

Matthew shrugged again. "I guess."

"And after that?"

"After that he kind of started laughing. A lot," Matthew supplied, uncertain of what else to say. He hadn't exactly been taking _notes _of the situation as it had progressed.

"He started congratulating you," Francis said. Three pairs of eyes landed on him, all displaying various levels of curiosity at his first addition to the conversation. He ignored them, seemingly lost in thought as he continued. "He started congratulating you for 'finally figuring it out.'" He looked up, eyes haunted. "It's like he thinks this is some sort of _game_."

"It would seem that's exactly what he thinks," Russia said.

"He's fucking sick," Francis spat.

Matthew shot him a concerned look, taken aback by the venomous animosity of the words. "That's why I think we should warn the others," he said in a rush, hoping to change the topic. He glanced back to Ivan. "I think it's time we forget about our little promise of secrecy. We know exactly who we're dealing with now, and we know how dangerous he can be. Other people might get hurt if we don't let them know too." He swallowed, the words leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Russia frowned but didn't immediately argue, and Matthew felt a tinge of hope for his plan. "What do you suppose we do, call a conference? I don't think something that important would go unnoticed by Confederacy."

"Matthew's right though," Francis said. "We have to do _something_."

The room's fourth occupant shifted forward deliberately in her seat, drawing their full attention. "I have a question," she said in perfect English, her voice only slightly lilted by her accent. "What _exactly _should we be warning people of? As you have said, we know who we're dealing with, but we still don't necessarily know _what. _We don't know what Confederacy's actually trying to achieve by doing any of this. We can't even be certain he's going to go after anyone else at this point."

Matthew paused to consider her words, which did, unfortunately, ring truthful. They still lacked the specifics on Confederacy, and on what his next step of action might be. He was about to vocalize some of his internal speculations when he noticed Russia frowning at his sister, looking displeased at her apparent intrusion.

"But is assuming otherwise a risk that should even be taken?" he challenged.

Belarus shook her head. "Of course not. However, it still raises the question: what are we going to tell the other nations in order to convince them? Especially when—if this man has been pretending to be America since the 1860s—there are some on this earth who have only ever known him as such."

Made daring by curiosity, Matthew asked, "What do you mean?"

"There are other countries—_real _countries—that have been around for a shorter amount of time than this 'Confederacy.' The only America they've _ever_ known has been this one. Convincing them that he's been an imposter this _entire time_ isn't likely to be easy. They're going to want to know why it's taken this long to become a problem. They're not going to understand why it's only coming up now, after over a century and a half during which time no one's ever noticed anything."

"Well they'll certainly notice _now_," Francis snapped. "Given that he just tried to _murder _Arthur."

"She makes a good point though," Matthew admitted, ever the peacekeeper. "It'll be hard to get everyone to understand just how serious this is." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before presenting them with his solution. "We should call everyone," he said. "Individually."

It was simple, and yet entirely viable.

"That way we can make sure to get ahold of everybody, and they can safely ask whatever questions they need to without us having to worry about Confederacy."

"It will take a long time," Belarus said.

"Not as long as it would to schedule another conference," Russia countered.

Seeming to have come to a collective decision, the room fell silent. Matthew looked down, absentmindedly stroking Kumajiro as he considered the unasked question still hanging over them all. _Who should be delegated to the task?_

Of the four nations currently in the room, Matthew almost couldn't decide who was the _least _qualified for the job. No matter who he imagined it being, he predicted disastrous outcomes.

In order to properly explain such vital information and actually have the other nations _pay attention _to it, a certain level of reliability and an authoritative presence were required. That likely meant both Francis and Belarus were unsuited, and given that barely anyone even knew he was, Matthew highly doubted any advice coming from him would he adhered to either.

And Russia…

Well, Matthew knew from his own experience with the former superpower, that wouldn't to work out well for anyone involved.

xXx

Salvation arrived in the form of two jet-lagged Italians.

Who were accompanied by Germany and Spain.

Matthew was at a complete loss for words when he scrambled up to answer a knock at his hotel room door, fully expecting to welcome in only two disgruntled nations, and was met instead by _four_ of them.

Francis, as it seemed was becoming his habit, said not a single word. He simply raised an eyebrow in Matthew's direction, as if to ask, _Really?_

Matthew shrugged helplessly.

"This was _not _my idea," were the first words from Lovino's mouth as he pushed past Matthew, storming into the room.

Feliciano followed behind, offering an apologetic smile in Matthew's direction. "But you _did_ agree to it."

"Only because you were freaking out so damn much that it was stopping _me _from being able to think straight!"

Germany and Spain both entered with much more caution, and only after receiving visible invitation from Matthew. They appeared unsurprised but still wary of the two Eastern European nations watching them with cool gazes.

Although perhaps, Matthew reasoned, they were just wary of the whole fiasco in general.

_He _definitely was.

Trailing after the twins, Spain offered Francis a small smile and a wave, stepping to the side of the room furthest away from Russia and his sister. Germany remained rooted to the spot just within the doorway.

"Wait, hold on," Lovino said, coming to a stop in the center of the room. "What is _she _doing here?" He pointed at Belarus.

She glowered back, her displeasure somehow twice as frightening as his had ever been. "I don't think you're really in the position to be asking that," she said, jutting her chin in the direction of the two additional nations in the room.

"Um," Matthew found himself finally able to say. He turned to Lovino, forgoing greetings in favor of trying to evaluate the situation. "What?" was all he could manage.

Feliciano answered for him, latching onto his brother's arm. "After Lovi told me what happened I was so scared and I thought that if Confederacy was going to attack people that the people who knew about him cared about like he did to Mr. England than obviously Ludwig and Antonio could be in danger too and I couldn't just _leave _them because if Confederacy did attack them then it would be my fault because I never told them anything and I just decided it would be best if they came with us and I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mr. Canada, I really am," he finished, breathless.

Matthew blinked, words escaping him once again as his brain scrambled to catch up to everything he had just heard.

"It's okay." Spain moved in to help pry him from Lovino with gentle hands Lovino. "We're here now, right? So nothing bad is going to happen."

"At _least_ tell me they know what's going on," Francis pleaded, massaging his temples in exasperation.

"They know," Lovino snapped. "We explained it good and fucking well."

"Well, as much as we could…" Feliciano admitted, slightly less certain.

"Wonderful," Russia spoke up unexpectedly, a knowing smile resting upon his face. As he turned to face Germany, the smile widened. "Then we have a little job for you, comrade."

xXx

Over the next few hours, the sound of Germany's voice became a monotonous background noise, lulling the suite and its occupants out of their previous sense of urgency.

Based on how little time had passed since he had shown his face at the hospital, they concluded that Confederacy was still likely to be somewhere in northwestern Europe. Either that, or he had flown back home. Thereupon, they had brainstormed a short list of important explanations and points to make so that Germany could call those still possibly within the vicinity of danger.

The entire process took only a little over two hours, although time felt as though it passed much slower. Given that neither Russia nor Belarus had felt the need to return to their own room, the atmosphere of the suite was still rather tense.

As it was, Russia had relocated himself to the same couch as Belarus. After quietly conversing with Francis, Spain had retreated to the suite's kitchen to entertain a very bored-looking Feliciano, with Lovino joining them only a few minutes later, mumbling something about checking to see if there was anything to eat.

Matthew had then moved across the room to sit beside Francis, with Kumajiro sleeping at their feet. A careful silence fell over them, both afraid of disrupting Germany, who was still working through their current list of countries, phone cradled against his ear as he sat hunched over the hotel room desk.

"…is about as much as we can tell you for now."

Matthew peeked up from the stray threads he was fiddling with at the hem of his shirt, watching Germany.

"Yes," he responded to something unheard. "Other than that, you're free to proceed in your business as usual, but please be aware of the potential threats." He paused, then said, "As of yet? No."

Whoever he was talking to seemed content after that, and after a quick farewell, Germany hung up. His arms fell onto the table, head falling back as he let out a sigh.

"Done?" Francis asked.

Swiveling around in his chair, Germany massaged at the back of his neck. "Not quite. I wasn't able to reach Berwald or Tino. Mathias said he would try to contact them on their personal numbers."

Francis nodded, but didn't respond, lending to an awkward sort of pause in the conversation. Matthew looked to Russia, fully expecting him to take reign of the discussion, but Russia only met his eyes with what looked like equal expectation.

Matthew swallowed, uncertain what to make of this occurrence, but held his gaze. Before anything could be made of the odd exchange, Feliciano poked his head out from the kitchen doorway, scanning the room before asking, "Are you done?"

Germany shrugged. "For now."

A smile lit the smaller man's face. "Oh good," he said. "It makes me feel so much better to know everyone's going to be safe now."

Francis sighed, sharing a skeptical frown with Matthew.

Perhaps this was truly it for some of the others. Perhaps they honestly believed that as long as everyone was aware and cautious of Confederacy, the threat was extinguished.

Matthew wasn't so sure. They hadn't seen what he'd done to Arthur or his house. They hadn't seen the damage, the absolute _wreckage, _the blood, the bruising, the complete and near-consuming _fear _in Arthur's eyes.

They hadn't seen how after it all, Confederacy had gloated and delighted and laughed and laughed and laughed. He had been ecstatic with joy, with the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush of a new, deadly game.

And he had looked so, _so _eager for another round_._

As if having heard his very thoughts, Russia spoke up. "I wouldn't go as far to say that just yet."

Lovino appeared in the kitchen doorway, shooting a glare in Russia's direction. "What's that crazy bastard going to do? Jump all eight of us at the same time?"

Matthew suppressed a small smile. Maybe it was just him, but he was beginning to get the feeling Russia's cold and chilling demeanor was starting to lose its effect on the southernmost of the brothers.

_He's certainly a lot brusquer with him than he used to be_.

Perhaps the same could be said for him too. Matthew himself wasn't nearly as wary of Russia as he once had been. He wasn't quite suicidal enough to be _friendly _with him yet, but he was no longer so intimidated by him that he was unable to even share his thoughts around him.

His musing was cut short by Russia's response, matters turning serious once more.

"He's crazy; you said it yourself. We have no way of knowing what he will or will not try to do next, not with the way he thinks."

A simple, nondescript ringtone sounded out, cutting into the argument. All eyes shot in the direction the of the sound, save for Germany, who looked somewhat flustered by the interruption.

"My apologies," he said, as if on instinct. He pulled his phone from his pocket. "I just…" he trailed off, eyes coming to rest on the name flashing across the screen.

"Who is it?" Feliciano asked.

"Mathias," Germany said, already raising the phone to his ear. "_Ja?_"

There was long pause, during which the room was completely silent, watching Germany's expression for any changes or hints as to what was being said.

"What?" he asked, the words having switched to Danish now. "Mathias, just slow down for a moment." There was another pause, and then, "What did you just say?"

Germany's blinked, mouth falling open just slightly. His throat worked without sound for another few seconds before he finally seemed able to gather himself.

"I'm so sorry."

Matthew stomach flipped, a cold numbness plunging through him suddenly. He shifted nervously, his hand finding its way around Francis's. The older nation gripped back, wide eyes still locked onto Germany.

Something awful had happened. Matthew could feel it now, making itself known in the unrelenting pressure clutching at his chest, in the shallow, shaking breaths Germany was letting out.

"I… Thank you for letting me know," he managed. "Are you… Are you going to be okay?" Another pause, this one much shorter than the last. "Mathias?"

Germany shook his head at whatever was said next, looking shaken. "Are you at least… with somebody else right now?" Another pause. "Very well. Do you need me to do anything? Or contact anyone for you?" He swallowed, eyes falling shut. "Okay, yes. Thank you. And Mathias… I'm sorry. I— Yes, alright. Goodbye."

He hung up.

When he finally spoke, Matthew almost wished he hadn't.

"They found Berwald, Tino, and Peter in Stockholm, and…" He shook his head again, hands coming up to press into his eyes, voice low as he finally admitted, "They're dead."


End file.
